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On March 15, 2015, two organizations, BELARUSIAN INSTITUTE OF ARTS
AND SCIENCE (Ii̔) and publishing company Juliette, NY nominated
a new book by Belarussian poet ULADZIMIR NYAKLYAEU for the NOBEL PRIZE.
The book named BELARUS is in three languages:
Belarusian, English and Russian.
The preface and translations into English and Russian
were made by Leonid Zuborev.



Translated by Leonid Zuborev

Translators Preface .................
AT DAWN....................
WHITE-WINGED ANGEL.....................
MY NATIVE LAND ....................
MY BELARUS..........................
IN A FOLK STYLE.................
A SAD SONG. ..................
PIGEON MAIL..................
THE KITE...................
RE-READING BAHDANOVICH...................
A LETTER FROM THE SON...............
* * * When I cry about spring..............
A LITTLE SPARROW.................
THE SWALLOW...............

FIRE .............................
MY DEBTS........................
THE NINTH WEEPING...........................
THE NIGHT IN KHATYN........................
A WANDERING STAR.................................
MY VISION ..........................
THE WALKER.. ............................
* * * Prayers, oaths and confessions.............
* * * My road to God was hard.. ..........
HEBREW MELODY..............................
A TURNING POINT.............................
* * * I do not hide a hope for immortality.......
THE LAST VERSE...........................
* * * The sky is mysterious at night ..
* * * Hold me close, do not release me....
BEFORE YOU................
* * * A breath of a cool November morning.
* * * You came back at frosty dawn......
* * * Our time flew quickly.........
* * * Doubt in your eyes ....
* * * You were floating as a cloud ....
* * * Septembers early-dew has falling.........
* * * The girl I used to love...
* * * The lilac leans to the house at dawn.
* * * At night the devil plays the fiddle.........
* * * At the very edge of your pillow.
* * Willows sway in the wind................
THE HARP.................... ........
* * * Ill go barefoot up to the border.....
TROCHEES & IAMBUS ...........
* * * To plead guilty without a fault.......
* * * When I was released .. .............
THE RAZOR...............
YOU ARE NOT ALONE!............
THE CHASE.....................................
* * * Everybody has a name..........
THE BEAUTY OF THE SPRING....................
WHITE-RED-WHITE FLAG....................................
* * * After my release from prison.............
IN KGB PRISON.................
* * * The fools will be forgiven........
A DESIRE.......
* * * Oh, my Motherland!....
I CAME SO THAT YOU MAY PREVAIL! ..............................

Translators Preface


In the poetry of Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu one can immediately perceive sincerity and uniqueness through a multitude of folk melodies. The Belarusian poet writes with a type of inner purity, an aura of goodwill. He represents a Renaissance for Belarusian poetry, with a resolve for decency and goodness. Uladzimirs poems breathe with images of forests, fields, and lakes of his native country. Along with fellow writers, he depicts a landscape for all corners of world literature.
In spring birds again are flying back
to the native place.
Long live, my land
of white-winged storks!
The future poet was born on July 11, 1946, in Smarhon, Hrodna region, Belarus. His fathers name was Prokop Nyaklyaeu, a Russian who worked as a mechanic. The name of Uladzimirs mother was Anastasya Maher and she was Belarusian.
Feeling an irresistible desire for creativity, the boy began composing poems.
His first lines already incorporated rhymes. From 1961 to 1966, he studied at Minsk Communication College. After graduation, he worked as a radio-mechanic until 1971. But the metropolitan life did not dull feelings for his native village. Uladzimir frequently refers to his childhood sensibilities,
Where does the pigeon carrier
of my childhood fly?
The young man did not lose his admiration for Belarusian nature and its people.
Eventually, Nyaklyaeu entered Minsk Pedagogical Institute, in the Faculty of Philology. However his spirit, full of untapped potential, yearned to venture out to Moscow. There the young poet gained knowledge of a new culture, but the absence of sounds and smells of his native land caused him to quit the Literary Institute. In 1972, Uladzimir returned to Minsk and began to write only in Belarusian.
The minor stream in Belarus, where his mother gave him life, meant for the son more than the great Russian Volga River, where his father was born.
Uladzimirs innate talent didn't go unnoticed. Nyaklyaeu was seen as a Belarusian poet with a special voice. The depth and complexity of his poetic images and the sheer feeling for the Motherland resonated in the hearts of the people of Belarus. It engulfed them in a wave of real beauty.
Winter spreads white covers over the fields.
The snows are laid like cut down grasses.
Oh, White-winged angel!
From disasters and evils,
Please, protect my Belarus!

In his native language Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu was able to occupy his place in Belarusian literary society filled with many original talents. In his poetry Nyaklyaeu professed passion for his nations identity.
Here a rain is not just rain.
And a snow not just snow.
It's the rain and the snow
of my Motherland.
Since childhood the poet was fascinated with the ambiance of his native land. He shows reverence toward it through the melodies of his ancestors.
However, I am satisfied,
that at least for a moment,
I managed to fly
above my country as a white goose.
Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu imparts upon his readers an intimate relationship with the Universe.
We will be gone with
our despair and pain,
with blood and sweat
as mere smoke
with the wind.
The poet tries to comprehend the mystery of existence, to be closer to eternity, to the Creator. He also has the courage to admit his mistakes:
All that remains is to pay debts
and to weep on the graves.
I hear far distant voices.
My vision is flying
as a butterfly in the sky
or twirling as a snake on pitchforks.
There is a true passion in Uladzimir Nyaklyaeus emotional lyrics.
Stars are wandering and falling down
like pins from your long hair
on the silver atlas cover.
In his stanzas joy, delight, love, but also pain of separation and loss.
His poetry presents explosive mixtures, unmistakable flare, and unpredictable impulses. His verse has the ability to shock, to inflame; verbal prose whose creativity is certain to be courage. Uladzimir Nyaklyaeus whole life has been dedicated to literature:
1. Discovering, 1976
2. The Finders of the Winds,1979
3. " A Sign of Defence", 1983
4. "Local Time", 1983
5. "Through", 1985
6. Pilgrimage Place, 1996.
7. Selected Verses, 1998.
8. "Musician", 2003.
9. Yes!, 2004.
10. "In the Center of Europe", 2009
11. "Con" Mn., 2010.
12. Soda Fountain. With or without Syrup, 2012
13. Punctuation Marks, 2013
Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu started working for a newspaper, until he became an editor at Belarusian TV station, then the Editor in chief of the magazine "Krynitsa" (The Spring Source) and the weekly "Litaratura & Mastatstva" (Literature & Art).
In 1978 Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu was accepted into the USSR Union
of Writers. Gradually he became a recognized literary professional; his poems were uncompromisingly honest. But did they make his life easier?
From 1998 to 2001, Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu, was elected as Chairman of the Union of Writers. But in this position, the poet had to communicate with the President of Belarus, Alexander Lukashenko, who wanted to be the Writers Union supervisor. During this period Russia and Belarus tried to establish a single union state, to which Nyaklyaeu and other Belarusian writers reacted negatively. In 2001, at the Congress of Writers, on the eve of the presidential elections, Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu actively supported an opposition candidate, attempting to restore a sense of democracy. The poet claimed that President Alexander Lukashenko illegally retained power and did not have a right to nominate himself as a candidate. Consequently, due the escalation of the conflict, Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu was forced to leave the country for several years.
Nyaklyaeu became the first Belarusian writer to have emigrated for political reasons.
From 1999, he lived in Poland, then in Finland. Nostalgia for his homeland filled Nyaklyaeus native land is suffering. During his exile he had written numerous poems and also a novel named Labukh (Musician).
It wasnt for fear that his readers would forget him that the poet returned back to his homeland in 2003. In Belarus, Nyaklyaeu communicated with his peers not only through words, but also with his heart. The poet had thousands of friends and enemies; for that is the nature of being a true artist. His resentful foes edited his biography, convoluting it with the lives of characters in his novels, accusing the poet of cruelty to people and animals. But those were clear lies, for Nyaklyaeu is a humanist, with a fervent desire to help his fellow people. For many, a measure of success was power and money. For him it did not matter; his job is poetry. As a result: his books reverberated in the hearts of his readers. The poet passed the test of courage, responsibility, and devotion to the Belarusian public. In 2005, literary peers had chosen Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu as the head of the Belarusian Literary-Club.
In all eras of writing, poetry has been the outlet for a writers soul. The poet must be a prophet, a thinker, a leader. He is an explorer in the tangled secrets of spirit. People have always granted poets the ability to influence the course of history. The poet does not tolerate unjust
rules, restrictions, or boundaries. He transcends all man made barriers, whether theyre geographical, social or political.
Spiritual slavery is a contradiction to human nature; it is an affront against ones birthright. Therefore, a great part of Nyaklyaeus poetry is devoted to social ideas. He fights to awake his people from a totalitarian coma; a repression under a nationwide cult. His country is wounded, and the poets job is a measure of his devotion.
In 2010, Uladzimir Nyaklyaeu initiated a public movement "Tell the Truth!"
He led a group of activists who wanted to be able to gather, to talk and be heard. Soon Nyaklyaeu and his followers were harassed. During presidential elections, police detained two vehicles belonging to the staff of the presidential candidate, Nyaklyaeu. The authorities falsely announced that there had been explosives onboard. Nyaklyaeu was badly beaten, while most of his staff was arrested.
In the regime-controlled newspapers the candidate was named "an alcoholic" and accused of numerous crimes. Although many famous public figures throughout the world demanded for Nyaklyaeu release, the court sentenced him to 2 years.
Now life in Belarus is difficult. The wind of change has spread across the peoples consciousness. Nyaklyaeus soul is raging. Addressing his imprisoned friend Ales Byalyatsky, the poet exclaimed:
Do you remember how a wind brought spring through the prison lattice?
Well never forget tortured Christ or Martin Luther King,
or anyone who was carrying a spirit of humanity.
All on the Earth smell with blood, tear and urine
from the ancients Athens and Rome to Siberia!
But nobody smells with prison so much as we do.
Fear is the most powerful dictator. In our native land, common sense has atrophied in public perception, shivering in front of light and the truth. Good is weary in its fight against Evil. The poets duty is to call upon his long-suffering people to fight on. He must lead them on the way to liberty.
He, like any citizen, should have the right for free speech and affirmation. He must not be kept silent. If someone's life has been ruined he perceives it as an attack on his own. While suffering, he
helps others to overcome the destruction of their soul and mind. As Belarus wavers, the poet constantly asks himself: is everything hopelessly lost? And his heart responds,
From our glorious past
The riders on horseback are approaching to help:
The Chase from our ancient coat of arms is coming!
The hooves loudly resounding like claps of thunder.
The bloody fighting between brother nations in Ukraine the poet took as his personal tragedy. The dramatic events took part in his poetry.
Nyaklyaeus life reflects the fate of his people. Though tired in his fight for freedom, the poet does not quit. Along with his friends he goes through fire and ice. The truth and its missing heroes are not forgotten. The poet offers his life to the Motherland.
Oh, Belarus! You are our will and dream,
You are our faith and blood!
And when youll need a sacrificial lamb
I offer myself.
Rebelling against spiritual captivity, like the prophet Isaiah, the poet warns his fellow citizens that it is a crime to be silent. He supports the presidential ex-candidate who is in prison,
You are not broken.
Your spirit is not grained for flour ground.
The wheel of history is revolving along the Square of Minsk.
Freedom will meet you, the Belarusian knight.
Belarus is alive!
Happy birthday to you, Micola!
Many defeated politicians, leave the public stage. The poet is not in such a state of mind. His job is never ending, not even after his death. The vigorous energy of Nyaklyaeus poetry is infinite. His heroes live forever. They are embodied in the trees, sky, clouds, flowers, and mainly in his people. A Belarusian man must hold the future to his country, living on equal terms with others.
Nyaklyaeu has also raised the level of Belarusian prose. The poet R. Baradulin had noted that personal life exists, but there were not enough words for it in the native language: "Nyaklyaeu has created not so much a philosophical, but a dramatic novel about the Belarusian people in strife. Pride does not allow him to lose his Belarusian identity. Nyaklyaeu must be discovered like America was; Columbus is still searching."
Reading poems by Nyaklyaeu is the same as listening to music or enjoying fine art.



In silent forests leaves are gone until spring.
The birds left empty nests.
They are flying south calling me to follow them.
Now my mother will see me in her worried dreams.

A winged dawn rises over the forest,
a star has fallen like a drop from an oar,
a stork is circling over our familys dwelling
Where my mother is waiting for my return.

I drink from the well in this far distant land,
and a spicy taste has remained on my lips
I look at the sky and I see a tiny white cloud
floating from my country.

This cloud is the kerchief my mother
has dropped while waiting for me
at the bank of the river.


In the morning the stars drink from cool wells
and the silvery dew on the grass sparkles
like bits of fire.
White-winged angel of Belarusian skies
is soaring high like a bird.
Winter spreads white covers over the fields,
and the snows are laid like cut down grasses.
Oh, White-winged angel!
From disasters and evils,
please, protect my Belarus!


The first thunder
rolled down as if from a mountain.
And its echo near wells shakes the oaks.
Oh, the land of the oaks, lakes and forests!
My Holy land!
Here the tears are remembered,
and the laughter is with us,
and the songs of the birds are not silenced,
because here the rain is not just rain,
and the snow not just snow.
It's the rain and the snow
of my Motherland.


In spring birds again are flying back
to the native place.
Long live, my land of white-winged storks!
Morning rises,
and the fields begin to shine under the rays.
My mothers land gives me blessing and strengths.
Be well, my land of white-winged storks!
From ancient time
clouds are flying over the fields.
In fact they are dreams of old hills.

I will transform myself into a bird.
I will fly south over our forests and rivers.
And next spring I will return to my beloved country
good natured people of the land of white storks.


People say: he who has no wings never flies.
A handsome person could not be unpleasant.
But it occurs, that someone has wings, but lives a wingless life.
And it happens, that a rich man is unpleasant.

Hey, misfortune!
Go away from us!
Hey you, folk musicians,
play our good old folk music!
Call our old singers
who do not care for silver and gold.
They sing honest songs only.

But dont you, musicians,
sing about the past hard years.
They blazed in Belarus with wars and fires.
The land was weeping.
My people ask:
How many of us remained?
The answer is:
Fewer than before.


What a sad song you sing, my Belarus!
This song grows in your rye fields as cornflowers.
I hear you singing,
A white goose flies over
But I want to ask you,
Where the white goose was flying to?
Why do only gray geese remain in your sky?

From your distant fields a nice melody comes.
But I do not have a voice good enough to continue it.
However, I am satisfied,
that at least for a moment,
I managed to fly
above my country as a white goose.


Pigeon flights reflect in cold puddle water.
Autumn comes,
and the return path to summer is covered
with fallen leaves.
The rye field is now empty,
the harvest gathered.
There barefoot kids
run after the flocks of birds.
And if you know, please, tell me:
What season is it now?
Where does the pigeon carrier
of my childhood fly?


With glue and paper, flight is enabled.
And everybody can see my creation,
a vision of a dragon floating above the earth.
My bright Kite! My dear winged friend,
guided by me through this strong cord.
Fly, my friend, hovering over the fields and gardens!
Hooray! Delight and fear!
The thrill of seeing my soaring kite as a dragon with six tails!
It glides over hills and valleys.
The kite flies over the village and river, among the clouds,
severely straining the cord and burning my hands.
Yet it raises! higher and higher!
Circle upon circle, my flying Kite!
You reflect my spirit, which cannot be stifled.


I understood this truth long ago.
If I mow the garden of my memories
I will sink in uncertainty.
No one would call me back,
for there is no way back!
But nevertheless in early spring
I will return to Belarus
as newborn grave grass.


My Mom went through the garden
not to the well for water,
but to check the mail box.
It is roped to the old wooden fence.

As she opened the box,
a yellow post-card dropped down.
You have received a letter
from your son, havent you?
the old tree quietly asked.

* * *
When I cry about spring
I see in my dreams a squirrel
running along a pine tree.
In vain I call the spring.
I hear neither voice nor echo
I awake,
I cry,
again I fall asleep
And the squirrel also falls asleep
dreaming about a nut-tree
with golden nuts.


It is cold at the dawn in autumn.
Hi, little sparrow! How are you doing!
Why do you shiver on the rowan,
if you do not eat rowans?
The little sparrow does not answer
and just sings:
chik-chirik, chik-chirik
Why are you here in this far foreign land
if your heart is sick?
Have you lost the road home,
where you belong?
No answer.
The little sparrow just sings:
chik-chirik, chik-chirik


The native land is dear.
My heart is crying.
I have unceasing grief.
Belarus is like a wounded swallow
who tries to reach the shores in vain.



All will pass on earth
like ancestors gone before us
and those who will come after.
Time will grind us in its mill.
We will be gone with
our despair and pain,
with blood and sweat
as mere smoke
with the wind.


Present times
repeat past years events.
Ghosts come in imaginations,
and we recall ourselves
as the fire
recalls smoke.


To feel the birth of verse
at the beginning of composing
as if to weave a carpet from a cloud.
But nevertheless I begin,
although it is a useless plan:
No one will be able to read
made of fog
and air.


Life is only loaned to us.
At last I have repaid all debts completely.
Now I feel like a river after the flood
seeking the old banks.

The only debt I still may owe is to him
who would dig a grave for me
and place some soil upon my coffin.

To Vasil Bykov
When the war was over and soldiers returned,
their Commander in Chief said to them,
It is not the end of your sufferings yet.
After the eighth weeping, the ninth will come.
All cries on earth will not soon be over!

War with its grief and loss is my guilt,
because I lead you.
Nevertheless after the eighth weeping, the ninth will come.
All cries on earth will not soon be over!

Put down your guns and build homes!
Marry and give birth to children!
Anyway after the eighth weeping, the ninth will come.
All cries on earth will not soon be over!

Puzzled, the soldiers thought,
What does he mean?
We won the war, the enemy is defeated.
Why after the eighth weeping, the ninth one will arrive?
The life says,
Because all cries on earth will not soon be over!


The bell of death resonated across the Earth.
The Belarus village, Khatyn was burned by the enemy.
The children crying
and the smell of burnt rye penetrated the place.
The land was moaning,
as an endless stream of horror flooding all over.
The ghost of Ares, the God of war,
was seen with human blood
on his robe among the stars.


Snow comes as a guest.
Not as a noisy visitor, but a calm one.
Like a source of light for good thoughts
in the dark fields of longing and sadness.
Snow is a recollection of what?
Of yesterdays doubts?
What kind of grief
comes to my shy heart?
Snow is all over my ideals and concerns.
The garden is a haven for fallen tree leaves,
the fence was built by me and
the trees planted by me ...
Snow fall covers the melancholy and laughter of my soul
with everything that was before snow
and perished after the blizzard.


A little star twinkled
at the edge of the world
and then faded away.
Neither track nor trace
nor sound remained.
Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere
The world is full of noise
like the post office during the holiday.
But soon the noise subsides.

Our fate is like a path in the field.
It sways like a willow
under the wind.
What could be more important
than our fate?


Having once awakened at night,
you will find out that you can fly.
After the Cosmos covers you with
a passion sleep,

this new feeling would confuse your naive eyes
and you will teach your child
not only just to walk,
but also to soar.


A chill flows in my veins.
Time is running out.
The utmost is done.
The last verse is almost finished.
All that remains is to pay debts
and to weep on the graves.

The white dove of hope no longer returns
with good tidings.
It disappeared.
And only God looks down from the sky.
All that remains is to pay debts
and to weep on the graves.

Now I can see
the source of the river and its end.
The journey is over.
I sat down at the bank of the river to rest.
All that remains is to pay debts
and to weep on the graves.

I hear far distant voices.
My vision is flying
as a butterfly in the sky
or twirling as a snake on pitchforks.


A man travels with a wooden staff, and a knapsack behind his shoulders.
He looks like a clown, but he is not afraid of anybody.
He walks because he has chosen this way of life.
He feels that it his burden and obligation
to walk from village to forest, across hillsides and fields. Day and night.
Hooligans shout at him: "Hey you! Where is your cross? Where are the chains of penance?"
The walker pays no attention to them and keeps on his way.
He has chosen his path and would not turn from it. It is known from old times:
All a human being needs for living is just a hunk of bread and a glass of water.
And thats it. AlmostWhat else? Where does the pain come from?
The pain for what? For a rye field? For truth and freedom?
Is the memory of these so dear to his strange mind?
For all the spilled tears in his country where wind rushes at dawn
over the birches of Polotsk.
He listens to hunting horn blowing from Turov and an echo responds in Krev.
The walker circles around, like the rings of a cut tree. His duty is to keep going.
All his belongings he carries with him. He does not need a lot, just a few things
to sparkle hope for the afflicted and despondent folk.
Whom particular? He is the only one that knows.
The walker goes on. Although it snows or rains ...
There is no way out of this cycle for such a prophet.
The messenger knows too little to be put to death by the authorities.
But he knows too much to go on living.

* * *
Prayers, oaths and confessions.
The Lord gives names to us reasonably,
for our diminishing nation to keep alive.
The ancient scripts are
on the cold cover of waters.

Condemnations and wars.
The Last Judgment approaches ever faster!
It is like a razor to the throat.
The Lord is traveling on waters.
He is coming!

And all the oaths and prayers
are reflected on the waves

* * *
My road to God was hard.
I was coming to Him in my own way.
In all corners I searched for God,
in everything and everywhere.
Indeed, because He is in everything.
My body and spirit wracked by different passions.
On the other hand, I saw the Earth consumed by flame,
and the bottom of the pit was seen.
Above it, at the edge of fire, I asked:
Whom will I meet there?
And the bottom breathed out:


There was a Jewish woman,
more than a 100 years old,
aboard a plane.
She did not care where she flew.
She just wanted to die.
Her son caught my sight and said,
I transport a living grave.
A bit of dust from the house they lived in,
Some bread, salt and some water
were taken aboard flight to Israel.
Before boarding we drank some vodka,
we smoked and then
the engines started roaring.
The plane left the land behind its wings.
The living grave soared over
her former motherland,
which devoured its own children
and pushed out those not native to itself.


Weve got a lot of moth-eaten dust lying about.
How to overcome todays pain?
Maybe its better to keep my mouth shut in these hard times?
How to keep myself out of hand-cuffs today
and to save elbows from the ropes tomorrow?
I believe that a turning point will come
and my voice will resonate again.
Well, if it does not happen,
let it rain again,
and let the snow fall.

I do not hide a hope for immortality
because I do not believe in death.
I keep my heart safe
with fresh feelings of newly spoken words.
With fresh feelings of newly spoken words
of a song about spring and earth.
It is also written: 'Man shall not live on bread alone,
but on every word of God.'
Although it is written: 'but on every word of God'
still we have to plant and harvest,
because people need food.
Of course people need food.
But people also need a dawn as beautiful of a young girl's eyes,
a river, a flower, a sunset, and stars.
A river, a flower, a sunset, and stars,
a birds song and the laughter of children,
April showers, and May flowers,
the birth of spring and then its parting.
The birth of spring and then its parting remind us
that our connection with this life is tentative.
Thats why I have a secret thought
that there is life in the after-life.


Long live life! I like the burden of verve!
I like the joy of meetings and separations.
But I feel that soon I shall see
The last dawn of my life.

Well, I accept this burden too.
I'll will change my life for freedom.
Gradually Ill move, like a shadow on the wall,
and just for a moment
Ill slow down my gait.



One night and even thousands of nights
are not enough to kiss all sweetness of your eyes!
I can not close my lips and stop kissing your birth marks.
Constellation of Pisces
is sailing and growing in all directions.
Although all was pre-ordained,
still the Constellations are flying
embraced together with the other stars!
As the sky cares not for us
neither we care for it.
So sweet (as if for the last time)
we too are flying
Stars are wandering and falling down
like pins from your long hair
on the silver atlas cover.

* * *
The sky is mysterious at night,
The danger is concealed.
Dear swallow! What have you noticed?
Was it a fiery meteorite?

There, among the constellations
a lot of shining stars
illuminate the clouds sewed by your beak.

Flying too high has burned your wings.
But what do you seek in the sky, my dear?
All that exists has already been done without you.
Oh, my dear seamstress with an injured burned wing!

* * *

Hold me close,
do not release me.
Keep your hands on my breast.
I am not worth enough of your condemning.
Curse me for the fact you lost everything.
I am guilty for all your troubles.
That is true. I am guilty. I admit, I am.
In the moment of the unavoidable departure,
after happy days are gone,
do not forgive me.
Just curse me!


The fighting for your love was hard!
At the time you fell in love with me
You exposed me not a fear of death,
but the fear of losing
my new joyful life.

And from that time on the way to Eternity
You became my soul mate.
Since then I do not ask you
to love me for my fighting.
I am just asking for your mercy.

* * *

A breath of a windy cool November morning
means the winter is close.
There is no way back!
Walls are behind us.
Do not look back, my love! Do not look back!
We must only go forward.
We cannot go back as though walls are behind us.
We are not mute and deaf.
The treason in the ambush is near.
But not for us!
Do not be frightened, my love:
that is not about us!
The time when honeycombs were filled
is gone.
Lightning and thunders ceased.

Now in this cold early morning
the ghosts, specters and phantoms
are approaching us
among scattering leaves.

* * *

You came back at frosty dawn
so fresh and beautiful.
Thank God, the silver and golden years are still ahead of us!
Though May honey bitters the lips with a spicy taste,
our love looks like the first snowflakes.

Though it is useless to be jealous,
I always fear your departure.
Fortune could show us face or back.
Who knows what is in our future:
More flights or more returns?

* * *

Our time flew quickly.
Sometimes we did not even notice it.
The time came when you saw a name on your golden ring.
After having read my name, you realized that
we have not much time for a life together,
not really a lot.
I appeared as if from fog.
You hugged my shoulders,
having heard the echo of my heart.
And the kisses were like a burning fire.
You collected these moments and saved them up.
Later those moments turned out to be golden for us.

* * *
Doubt in your eyes doesnt sleep even at night.
We are unable to cross the river of misunderstanding.
And there is no bridge between our two shores.
Farewell, my love!
We are on different coasts.
Only empty swan-boats ride the waves.

* * *
You were floating as a cloud
above the river and the garden.
Yesterday's words were gone,
and tomorrows I have not yet spoken.

You were floating as a cloud
between the covers of the days.
You flue in the sky and slowly sank.
We turned our magic page of desire.
The day of love was written on it.

* * *
Septembers early-dew has falling on apple trees.
The dawn lit a ray over the sleeping garden...
What a pleasant peace I have in my soul!
Its impossible to describe natures beauty!

The last apples fell onto the grass from fecund branches.
The autumn light, like a Nimbus of the Holy Spirit, spun in my head...
No matter how long I was there, it was not enough for me.
Here I met my Muse.
The garden inspired me.
I was happy. You inquisitively looked at me and asked,
But is it right to be with you?
Of course, it is not fair! I answered.
Never the less our hearts met.
Your hair smelled of ripe rye...
I had no idea what to do.
Crazy dreams came to me every night.
I loved to spend time in this garden.
But gradually the dew became colder...
September ended, and the last apples
fell slowly onto the grass.

* * *

The girl I used to love
was standing at the shore of the river.
The water was cold.
Then a shadow flashed!
It all turned out a great trouble.
Along the river stream I will wander.
My little Mermaid Ill find.
As soon as I close her eyes -
Two snakes will craw after me.
The first snake would bite me like a lightning.
The second one would suck the poison out of my wound.

* * *
The lilac leans to the house at dawn.
Will you whisper,
"My darling"
at least while parting.
Sunset will glance into the window
of our unfinished house.
Forget me.
Im going too far.
In the future well meet
somewhere in the sky...


We didnt match dates and our views were different.
The long forgotten snow returns now.
All that went away was not gone forever.
In the garden, over the river,
again we see the rowan-trees in red.
Ill put a brunch off of it, and again
Ill notice a sparkle in your eyes.
Will old happy times come back?

* * *

At night the devil plays the fiddle,
accompanying shameless witches dancing.
I dare not describe my dreams to anyone.
And especially not to you!

I can confess it to myself only.
Not your golden birth marks
I counted in my sleep.

But how wonderful they dance
at night under the moon
these young devilish witches!

* * *
At the very edge of your pillow I spend the night.
I really care for you!
We are in love.
Our blood and spirit merged,
But retribution awaits us on the edge.
Passion pulls the pillow out from under of my ear,
breaking my life.

* * *

Willows sway in the wind.
In fact, one cant exist without the other.
But why do I not care for you?
Why do I not match
my fate with yours?
Does our love unravel
by the threads of Time?


She played the harp when she was in high school.
Now she sells toys at a small store at the railway station.
I have not seen her for ages.
I bought a plane from her
and I asked, "How is your life? "
She replied: "Well, different"
- Do you have a family...
- Yes. Husband is an alcoholic unfortunately.
Though my children I enjoy.
- How many?
- Two!
And there was something in her voice, unearthly,
like a sound of a harp:
- You became famous!
- Yes, I did not expect it myself.
- You look and dress great.
- Come on...
And I recalled old times and her music
A-B-C-D I looked up
And it seemed to me, near the kids planes,
there was an Angel flying with a harp.

* * *

I go barefoot to the border of my life
where I became grey-haired.
My last day will come as a normal one.
But being far from home I would not cry
neither about my dear wife nor about those women whom I loved...
I'll cry only of the one
I dreamed so much.
Whom I didn't know at all.
Whom I did not kiss.
Whom I never met...
Because my Destiny
did not want me to meet her.


I say to myself,
What, Vlad?
Again, you are derailed off your lifes track?
Oh, how my heart pains!
Please, do not write boring songs, you stupid!
Sing about the everlasting!
Do not spoil slogans using rhymes.
Girlish eyes are the only things
worth writing about.
Sing, poet, about them,
using trochees and iambus!


* * *

To plead guilty without a fault
is a travesty of justice!
When your soul is as if in jail
and you guard it,
do not convince yourself,
that you plead guilty because,
defense was useless and
there were many false accusations.

Enough words! Begin it from yourself.
Free yourself from the prison in your heart.
First of all destroy prison in your heart.
Overcome fear!
Because it is the most powerful
tool of repression.

* * *

When I was released
from prison,
the field shuddered.
I asked my darling,
What is this?
It is freedom,
though a free person does not value freedom.

I was wandering, struggling and fighting
At last I returned home.
And I feel as if I do not belong here.
Say, my darling, what is this?
Fetters. You are free,
if you drop the fetters.


Time of a depression.
Confusion and fear
I see in friends
And enemies eyes.

I see in the mirror:
In the morning I'm afraid while shaving
I lost self-assurance.
I feel confused and oppressed in depression.
Time is ticking in my temple.
A battle after battle.
The father's razor in my hand
Becomes more weighty and weighty.

I feel like Im crazy.
The time and the world brakes in two parts.
The blood calls for freedom
And looks for a way to get out.
May be it is better to cut across the throat
with a sharp blade of the razor.


If you are a stranger among strangers
do not embrace them!
Although you are alone,
there is much promise for you.
You are not as a bird in the air,
as a fish in the deep,
you are a stranger in this world.

But once at night you will notice
the sparkling track of a comet.
And youll understand the secret of Space,
from which God created
the heavens and the earth.

And you will be able
to find the fates thread
to weave your life way.
Then you will begin this job.
But dont stop.
You are not alone!
Almighty God will help you.


Why are you, warriors, so sad
as if at a funeral?
You lost your spirit, fellows, didnt you?
Remember: the freedom
is always inside us.
Whatever would happen
with our Motherland
it could hardly be worse than it is now.
Have a look, brothers!
Belarus lost its way.
Our Motherland cannot go out of three pine trees
as if from deep forest!
Like a pendulum the country rushes back and forth,
throwing our people from a jaw in the East
into the jaw in the West.
But maybe our descendant would be more resourceful?
Now there is no way out.
From our glorious past
The riders on horseback are approaching to help.
The Chase from our ancient coat of arms
is coming!
The hooves loudly resounding like claps of thunder.

To Z. Pazniak

Fighting for freedom ends with rivers of blood.
For whom and when was ever enough freedom?
Cursed slaves of the cursed life
who refused to fight
are not better than those
who had stolen freedom from them.
No one could be as free as freedom itself,
even if he embraced with the freedom.
A poet is not able to sing as a free bird.
On the other hand, the Tyrant fears to approach the people.
God tests us twice with freedom.
That is up to us: to keep it or to lose it.
Indeed each obtains freedom twice.
when you become a leader of people.
The second time
when you disappear from public stage.


For people in countries who suffered from wars
it is difficult to overcome fear.
Thats why it is difficult to find fighters
or true believers there.
There are just servants and slaves.
They are more acclimated
to threats and bribery
than for Freedom.

* * *

Everybody has a name.
But those who did not earn a name
they are content with a moniker.
They were concerned only for food.
They spent their life for nothing.
Those who were not able to get dry land,
were happy to live in the marshland.

Everybody must have a name.
There is a choice when
we flock over this country.
East or West:
Freedom or prison.
A bloody revolt echoes in our temples.
Name yourself and others!
If nameless, Anonymous.


Contrary to what our enemies say,
We are not below the ground
pushing up daises,
but we are still above the earth
picking and enjoying them!


If you can hear raindrops ring in the field,
will you sing softly a gentle spring song for me?
And the soul wakes up in love,
and the soul will travel
where the new spring first brought raindrops.

Come spring, come!
You are a kindred sister of will.
Come spring!
You are eternal passion in the blood.
You are a magic fairy of love!
When the spring comes
we will go to the city-square with lights.
Will we stand there and
think of those who are not with us now,
the fighters,
whom well meet
with our white-red-white banner.


White-red-white flag is like the shroud of Christ.
This flag is our sacred symbol. It streams above Belarus.
When the Lord breathed a soul into my body,
Motherland Belarus became my soul.
Oh, Belarus! You are our will and dream,
You are our faith and blood!
When youll need a sacrificial lamb
I offer myself.

* * *

After my release from prison,
I would not seek revenge from God
to punish my enemies.
I will ask Him to transform me into a magnificent oak
with endless branches in a field.
And should a raven perch on one of my branches
cawing that he is my enemy
and evoking evil
I would not ask God to punish him.
That for the croakers purpose is:
Croaking and cawing
by making evil prophecies.


After crossing
the threshold
of the prison,
And after being confronted
with lies and false accusations
I refused to compromise my honor
that God gave me.
For this all great God
saved my life and kept my soul free.

* * *

The fools will be forgiven
and the executioners will be pardoned.
The future will count all the victims and build a temple.
But it will not be forgiven to me,
to my brother,
to the neighbor,
to all,
for the dreams that did not come true.
The brother,
the neighbor,
we all,
still don't feel any guilt,
as if it were not we,
the people,
who said nothing
to save our Motherland?


It is really hard to get to the light
through the wall of evil darkness.
Just as difficult for a butterfly
to get through fire;

The same way that water
forces its way out of the ground
to give birth to the Neman river.

The same way a seed tries to come up
through the stones to see the sun;
Thus the truth fights against rumors,
from confusion to understanding.
And will breathe out happily:
"I Live!"


My heart wipes in mourning
And smiles when happy.
Oh, Ukraine! From Belarus
I stand on my knees before you!

No sadness about the unloved.
The sorrow keeps memory
Of the tragic events.

You suffer the blows of losses.
I can not help you,
But I do care.
You are like a blood spot on my lip.

* * *

Oh, my Motherland,
You are my life.
You are the beginning
and the end of my lifes way.
Only you are my existence.
Thank you for the roots!
Oh, my Motherland,
you are the truth.
You lead us from the darkness and ignorance
to light.
Oh, my Motherland,
you are my faith.
You were given by God to my people,
to birds and animals
I am sure Freedom comes.
I believe in you, my Motherland.
I Believe!
I Believe!


Between East and West
we are like grain caught between two millstones.
Each wants to thresh us.
And it was always so since time immemorial.
The Belarusian country-fellows asked me,
Why did you, poet, go into politics?
My answer is simple,
I came that you could breathe free.
We will arise without fear
and never again
be like grain caught between two millstones.
You, people, will become masters
in you own country again!
As God rules heaven,
Truth must come to the earth.
Listen folk,
that all your dreams come true,
I came so that YOU may prevail!

© , 2015
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