From grief, my amber homeland,
O land of rue, from woe
You’ll dance. You’ll dance a folk-dance
At the tavern by the road.
Hundreds of buses pass here,
In my eyes you’ll be white.
Winter will hold you fast here,
Bridelike, in silver ice.
Sisters are linen weaving
From threads of woe with skill.
Mother is bitterly grieving
For a son dying in Brazil…
Father his soul has mortgaged.
“In misery I go,”
He says. Yes, I’ll dance also
From the bitterness of your woe.
Come spring though, down the river
We’ll sail to the bright blue sea.
If happiness fate won’t give us,
Grief won’t catch you and me!
(Antanas Miskinis)
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