An elk-torn apple tree cross.
Some rotten eaves and posts.
Underneath lies my childhood
Along with a clearing’s bright sun,
With a shepherdess’ barefoot steps
There, under the ruins of a shed.
Don’t look.
Now only colts’ feet stomp
Through my old meadows and fields,
And yesterday’s path by the orchard
The cuckoos have cried shut.
Only a blue, split teardrop
Swings from a desperate stalk...
Neither look at that gnarled birch tree!
It was sticky from the start.
I wanted to give you my childhood,
Not a sickle-cut bird in my hand.
Turn away until the futile doors of memory close.—
Nothing has been here.
Here is nothing.
Only swamps for wild boars and elks.
Some rotten eaves and posts.
Underneath lies my childhood
Along with a clearing’s bright sun,
With a shepherdess’ barefoot steps
There, under the ruins of a shed.
Don’t look.
Now only colts’ feet stomp
Through my old meadows and fields,
And yesterday’s path by the orchard
The cuckoos have cried shut.
Only a blue, split teardrop
Swings from a desperate stalk...
Neither look at that gnarled birch tree!
It was sticky from the start.
I wanted to give you my childhood,
Not a sickle-cut bird in my hand.
Turn away until the futile doors of memory close.—
Nothing has been here.
Here is nothing.
Only swamps for wild boars and elks.
Vizma Belševica (1931 - 2005) Latvia
Translated by Astrida Barbins-Stahnke
Source: LITUANUS, Lithuanian Quarterly Journal of Arts and Sciences, Volume 52, No 4 - Winter 2006
Translated by Astrida Barbins-Stahnke
Source: LITUANUS, Lithuanian Quarterly Journal of Arts and Sciences, Volume 52, No 4 - Winter 2006
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