On a Sunday, just at daybreak
it was not a sharp grouse calling,
and it wasn’t a small bird chirping.
It was a sister praying to her brother.
She opened a small small window
and she spoke with words,
“My dear brother, fair as a turtle dove.
Come and visit me in a strange and foreign land.
During times of misfortune,
during times of ill fate.”
“Oh my sister,” he said
“My dear one, my beloved kin,
I cannot come and be with you,
for I live beyond the dark meadows
and fast flowing rivers.
Beyond fast flowing rivers…”
“My beloved brother, fair as a turtle dove, fly to see me.
Fly across the bright meadows as a bright hawk.
Swim across as a swift swan.
And run across the wretched fields as an eight-week agile quail.
Slight and rest as a grey dove
in my courtyard,
lean your head to one side
and call out mournfully.”
“You can expect me to come visit you
when on the feast of Ste. Dominique
the rivers and lakes freeze over.
When a birch branch ruffles your hair.
Go, my sister,
to the swift flowing South Saskatchewan,
take sand in your white hands
and sow that sand upon a pale stone.
Arise early in the morning
and water the sand often.
At the twilight of dawn.
At the twilight of dusk.
Water it with copious tears,
and when that sand starts to sprout,
when it blooms with spring-like flowers.
When it covers the stone with cross-shaped tiger lilies,
that is when, sister.
That is when I will be your guest.
Can you wait for me?”
“My brother,” she says,
“Fair as the turtle dove, I am not an infant.
And I have not just begun to stand with my own volition.
Yet, I have never heard people talk of such a possibility;
that swift rivers and lakes might freeze,
on the feast of Ste. Dominique?
That swift rivers and lakes might freeze?
Or that a birch branch could be anthropomorphic?
That sand could sprout on a pale stone
and bloom with beautiful flowers
that cover the stone with cross-shaped tiger lilies?
You must think I’m pretty silly.
“Does it mean that I will not lay my eyes on you
for all of eternity?
It is hard for a winged-bird to spend the night in a meadow
with neither birch nor elm to rest.
Oh, as it is hard for a trout to live so long without water.
As it hard to sprout tiger lilies on a pale stone.
It is so hard and difficult to die in a foreign land…
Chuzhyna!
Sheho!
Sheho, brother, why?
It is hard for a winged-bird to spend the night in a meadow
with neither birch nor elm to rest.
As it is hard for a trout to live so long without water.
Like a mother who’s lost her daughter,
a sister with no brother in sight.
So brother,
I know its hard to sprout tiger lilies on a pale stone,
but I’ll do it on my own.
I’ll do it on my own.
I’ll never die in this foreign land.
I’ll never die in this…
Chuzhyna!
Sheho!”
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine.
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine.
But I really mean Saskatchewan…
