I was translating a fragment of Prelude in the Void into Belarusian (classical Taraškievica, the one with soft signs that scare my sons-in-law). A minor character — a train conductor — muttered a bitter little phrase: «Вот и верь после этого людям, я ему отдалась при луне…»
In Russian, it is a sad, almost folkish lament. But in Belarusian, I suddenly felt it wanted to be a poem. Not a serious one. A crooked, slightly absurd rhyme — the kind that sticks in your head like a splinter.
That was my first mistake.
2. The first attempts (failures are part of the process)
I tried to keep it close to the original. Something like:
> Вось і вер пасьля гэтага людзям,
> Я яму аддалася пры месяцы…
Fine. But the second couplet refused to behave. I needed a rhyme for «пры месяцы», and all I got was:
> Ён казаў, што мы разам пабудзем,
> А сам не вярнуўся да лесьвіцы.
The rhythm stumbled. The last word was clumsy. My inner Niekhaj (one of the three Bełty) started shouting: «You call this poetry?!»
3. The kerosene lamp and the goose feather
That night I did not sleep well. In a half-dream, I was walking through a gothic labyrinth with a kerosene lamp in one hand and a goose feather in the other, chewing on it and repeating «паўсюль or скрозь» — two Belarusian words for "everywhere", but one feels like a casual fact, the other like a mystical breakthrough.
I woke up with a new version:
> Вось і вер пасьля гэтага людзям,
> Я яму аддалася пры месяцы.
> Абяцаў вярнуцца, калі пахмяліцца,
> Ды з лыжкамі змыўся па лесьвіцы.
Better? Worse? The word «пахмяліцца» (to sober up) is coarse, but it is alive. And the final image — a man disappearing down the stairs with stolen spoons — suddenly felt true to the absurd spirit of WeirdForces.
4. The version that finally stuck
After another round of edits (and more wandering in that labyrinth), I settled on this:
> Вось і вер пасьля гэтага людзям,
> Я яму аддалася пры месяцы…
> Ён казаў, што мы разам пабудзем,
> Сам скраў лыжкі і змыўся па лесьвіцы!
The ellipsis after «пры месяцы» adds a breath, a hesitation. The exclamation mark at the end turns bitterness into dark comedy. And the stolen spoons — they are a callback to an earlier scene in Prelude in the Void, where the conductor finds a single spoon left by a shady passenger. Now the plot closes like a rusty trap.
5. Why this matters (and why I am showing you)
This is not great poetry. It is a small, crooked stanza. But it is mine — and it could only exist in this three‑language laboratory: Russian original, Belarusian twist, English commentary.
Behind the scenes, writing is not glamorous. It is chewing on a goose feather at 2 AM, arguing with imaginary friends, and waking up with the wrong preposition.
If you want to support this strange machine — there is a Buy me a coffee button somewhere on this page. Your kerosene keeps the lamp burning.
6. P.S.
This text is a deeper dive into my recent Telegram post. If you want to see the raw Russian version and how readers reacted, here is the link
And next time, I will show you how one illustration from Pneuma turned into a three‑language cipher — exclusively for BMAC supporters.
— IO‑IO