MAYBE I AM MISTAKEN

Maybe in this I am mistaken?
It's true I'm young, perhaps naive,
With people's ways not well acquainted...
But I sincerely do believe

That people kindly are by nature
And sympathise with others' woes,
And should they hear somebody crying
They'll sit with them and cry also.

A broken heart they'll soothe and comfort,
Eager to ease all suffering.
Like brothers, loving one another,
To one another aid they'll bring...

And so, though mine's a heavy burden,
Somehow I'll bear it – in the hope
That other folk, my plight observing,
Won't let me die beneath the load...

Maybe in this I am mistaken?
It's true I'm young, perhaps naive,
With people's ways not well acquainted...
But this sincerely I believe...

Translated by Peter Tempest


SCYTHE, HURRAY!

Mine is a meadow of people's woes,
Mine is a meadow where sweet grass grows!
    Scythe, clear a way, dear scythe, hurray!

Mournfully singing, hear my scythe ring,
Forged of pain, hammered by suffering.
    Scythe, clear a way, dear scythe, hurray!

Meadows are flowering, poor folk sigh.
The song of the scythe echoes every cry.
    Scythe, clear a way, dear scythe, hurray!

Misery's more than some folk can take...
My song's a summons: Lithuania, awake!
    Scythe, clear a way, dear scythe, hurray!

My song the ploughman hears with a thrill,
Banishing sorrow, steeling his will.
    Scythe, clear a way, dear scythe, hurray!

Steeling his will for a trial of strength,
Like the scythe in the song, he'll go the whole length!
    Scythe, clear a way, dear scythe, hurray!

Translated by Peter Tempest


RED POPPIES

Poppies in my heart have sprung,
Bright-red poppies - every one.

At the earth and sky they smile.
What do they foretell the while?

Days of joy, or battles new?
What is it they have in view?

Vainly do I try to see
What their flame is showing me.

What keeps their youth ever fresh -
Not like mine, soon doomed to death?

Why do they keep smiling so,
With a passionate red glow?

Summer heat has long since passed,
Yet they fear not wind or frost.

Well they brave the autumn sun
Though the harvest work is done.

It's high time they faded now.
Gossamer decks every bough.

"Live for joy!" is their behest,
"So you die with no regrets."

Still at us they cast an eye,
Beautiful as they are sly.

A forbidden way they show
To the joy we long to know...

Poppies flourish in my heart,
Ever brighter red they are...

Translated by Peter Tempest


ASTERS

Out there beside the garden wall
I glimpse belated asters blowing;
Yet I don't mourn the summer's going
Or weep the ruin of the fall.
Out there beside the garden wall
I glimpse belated asters blowing.

The sky's blue heart-compelling gladness
That only yesterday was ours,
Laughing the laughter of the flowers,
Clouds over now with ashen sadness.
The asters too will soon cease blowing
Out there beside the garden wall;
Yet I don't mourn the summer's going
Or weep the ruin of the fall.

Each heart of us, while time's foot ranges,
Suffers the season's colored changes.
When first love wakes in sudden glory,
Spring characters her fragrant story;
Then an intense delight enthralls us
As summer's golden trumpet calls us;
And when pain mars our patterned pleasure
Our days are telling autumn's measure.

Out there beside the garden wall
I glimpse belated asters blowing;
Yet I don't mourn the summer's going
Or weep the ruin of the fall.

Translated by W. K. Matthews

Born in Vilnius, Liudas Gira went to a secondary school there and in 1905 graduated from the Vilnius seminary, but did not take holy orders. He worked on the staff of Lithuanian newspapers. In 1913-1914 he edited Vaivorykštė (Rainbow), Lithuania's first literary journal. In 1938-1939 Gira was chairman of the Society of Lithuanian Writers. His verse was first published in 1903 and inaugurated the "song style" trend in Lithuanian poetry, based on lyric stylisation of folk songs.