During the last war,
every fourth Belarusian perished.
From an official document
Mother would give me, her daughter,
To the fourth one who would court her.
Folksong
Introduction
Have you seen a wood
cut by great clefts?
A forest, say, like to this one?
Which of every second pine is bereft,
Or at least every fourth one?
With my people it came to pass so;
War hatched attacked, its blows raining,
And mercilessly laid them low,
Now great clefts, clefts remaining.
Still they have not grown anew, there is left
Only a glaring dead zone,
Have you seen a wood
cut by great clefts?
A forest, say, like to this one?
Part I
Into the war my land flung
Its efforts from oldest to young.
Hundred-year-old Talash joined the fray,
Likewise the stripling Kaziej,
And they fell, scattered, prone,
Every fourth one.
Then the falling stars rained, tumbling still,
Black had the skyline become,
And on the earth footprints grew chill,
- Every fourth one.
And peace shone its light on us once more,
Thundrously fanfares were blown.
But there came not to that festal board
Every fourth one.
Long years widows kept hope alive,
Mothers watched for their sons to arrive,
They could not believe dead and gone
Every fourth one.
We remember the anguish, our aching loss,
Memory like reeds murmurs on,
O why are you not here with us,
Every fourth one?
Part II
Every fourth one is dead and done,
May they know peace everlasting!
Every third one wearied, wan,
Crippled, maimed, exhausted.
Every second one must carry
Wounds, burns, scars – none whole –
And we all, we all are harried
By wounds in our souls.
Ploughed over now are craters and trenches,
The rubble of hearths ploughed in to new use,
- But there remains a wound of anguish
In the flesh of my Belarus.
Part III
We tally every fourth one,
Or maybe ‘third’ would be true,
Because by hunger tortured
Children were dying too.
And still we have not tallied
Those who were wounded sorely,
Whose wounds healed not, but, pallid,
Passed from life prematurely.
So many gone without trace, killed then
Without grave, without wake, without sign,
And later, so many children
Blown to pieces by mines.
We tally every fourth one.
But that sum’s an approximation.
No way is it certain, that sum,
And the lesson still is greater.
Epilogue
The conjugation lesson
Do not forget this lesson,
The cut clefts are still desolation…
‘Children,
d’you know your lesson,
Have you learned
your conjugations?’
I go,
You go,
But he does not go –
He’s gone.
I sing,
You sing,
Silence from every fourth one.
We go,
You go,
Earth underfoot hard as stone,
They do not walk,
Are not alive,
Every fourth one.
And we love,
And you love
Flocks of children,
Grass,
Azure above,
Till the heart’s torn and overcome….
But if only they were still alive,
Every fourth!