Text 40

Maxim Bogdanovich

In the Egyptian age-long desert land

Washed by the Nile’s azure sacred waters,

Handful of seeds buried by ancient potters

Was found in crypt, covered with prehistoric sand.

Although the grains were dried in thousand years

The force of life in them that still was gleaming,

Had woken up and started magic beaming

That pushed the cornfield up to spring rain’s tears.

My poor country, this is your immortal symbol.

Your people’s spirit, cheerful and nimble,

Believe me, won’t drop off again.

It’ll jet ahead and roll like thunder

That pushed the sprout out of the grain

And managed to create a wonder.

(Translated by Vera Rich)

У. Караткевiч

Агонь з вяршынь – i дом твой як свяча

I мертвай хамрай попел над Гаморай,

I усё з нуля даводзiцца пачаць,

Бо у тым былым нiчога не гавроыць.

Калi ужо давядзецца зноу пачаць –

Iдзi ад дымам пушчаных святыняу

Ш не шкадуй нi плуга, нi мяча

На новы свет, дзе усё пакуль пустыня.

Там будзе грай сiвога крумкача,

Сто бездарожжау, соль i пыл на веях…

Калi ужо вырашыу з нуля пачаць –

Iдзi! Hе аглядайся! Скамянееш!

The fire reigns. Your home is ablaze

And mortal pall brings town to repentance.

The past stays numb, concealed in ashen haze.

You start from naught, or bide a doleful sentence.

Let your first step direct your path away

From fallen gods once sacred for a savage.

Spare not the plough or sword, and only pray

For a new world which is a gaping ravage.

This land is cursed with ravens' mournful groan

That stifles hope and makes your wishes hollow…

Don't leave the way you dared once to follow

And glance not back! You'll turn into a stone!

(Translated by Natalya Akhrem, 2007)

Chapter IV