Dreamingly they float from out the misty foggage,
Pinkish swans who paint the night with waxen starrage.
So peers the fable through the pane with graying eyes
And motherly good grace, which right behind it lies.
Don’t return, vexation, run, forever run,
I won’t let you rock the cradle of my son.
Swim towards the cradle, oh swans, like some wishes,
And let the quiet stars rest eneath his lashes.
The roosters threatened nighttime with their calls —
The swans still danced upon the sullen walls.
With their wings and down, they issue murmurations,
Tickling mirages with their gold constellations.
You’ll grow up, my son, and start upon your way,
Many dormant dangers will mature that day.
In the transport of dusk the forest nymphs with darkened brow
Will greed to have your subtlety, your love some way, somehow.
They will call for you in gardens of green,
Those betrothed to the dark-hairs of wondrous mein.
You can surely choose your friends and pick a spouse, my son,
But of choices for a country there is only one.
You can pick a friend and a blood-brother too,
But your mother’s already chosen for you.
Always they’re with you, wherever you go —
Your mother’s eyes, the home you used to know.
And if foreign fields be the resting place for you,
The willows and poplars will come without ado.
They will stand over you, and rustling their leaves,
Their baleful farewell will touch your very eaves.
For you can choose anything at all, my son,
But of Fatherlands for you there’s only one.
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky
Оригінал: Лебеді материнства