PAVLYUK, Ihor

My Village

My village isn't famous for anything.

Is the cornflower in the field a wonder?

Yet it can't be replaced with

The bluest cornflower in the world.

See the path running through the field.

Where else can you find a passage stretched like this?

And at the edge of the village, two poplars whispering,

While the wind searches for mushrooms in the pine wood.

Here everything laughs and converses,

The walnut tree narrates fairy tales to the birds.

Pink branches of the cherry grove weep

On the doorsteps for all who have left.

Abundant fields of rye and dewy oats

Emerge from the mist and sway at the feet.

The willows above our pond lament,

When lovers do not visit them.

They tie each path with handkerchiefs,

Yet one alone leads to the native land.

It lies there like an earring,

Left in the grass by Spring.

I step on it discreetly,

For there are the footprints of my grandparents.

And my heart adheres to the village,

Like a drop of dew to a cornflower.

translated by Kalpna Singh-Chitnis