MOLDED BY WATER
The clay on the shore was cracking
split by the long-lasting dryness,
the mind of the singer was grieving
under the load of sadness.
The water tossed and the sun scorched,
the clay, beaten by whether, splashed,
turbid and cloudy clay was turned
into small scoops, tiny purses.
And foggy spirit was molded,
split into tiny small verses,
for the children of the village to play,
for the maidens of the village to pray.
THE HYMN OF VIMPELE
The lily of Vimpele village
is closing it’s gentle eyelids,
the lake is still and the forest sleeps,
from the cloud the pale moon peeks
over summer night’s dim alleys,
ponds and bogs in the valleys.
The spruce sleeps, the fir dozes;
from sauna the smoke rises;
moonlight the dimness enhances,
on pliable fur tree branches
walks the song of life and dying
like a moonscape painting.
I PUSH MY BOAT ON THE WAVES
I push my boat on the rolling waves
and across the restless lake I sail,
through the straights between the islands
to a small bay leads my trail.
There at the shore of that placid bay,
there hides a bird-cherry grove,
home of the chaffinch and ladybird,
the cradle of songs of the cove.
And there in the fragrant shady grove
my dark-hared maiden I meet,
the ladybird of my joyful spring,
my song and my spring-flower sweet.