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SONG OF THE BISON

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Based on the eponymous poem
by Nicolas Hussovianus

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500 years ago.

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Far from our Homeland, in Rome,
was this poem written.

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The great Renaissance era
Belorussian poet Nicolas Hussovianus

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in it exalted the beauty of his
native land, its difficult fate,

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and its people - strong,
staunch of spirit,

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and ready to stand up for their freedom.

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The time of troubles has passed;

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the memory only

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Of a sad heart remains.

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I return there in thought,

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Day and night, always setting
the net of memory.

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Here I hunt for every priceless moment,

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Once lost,

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now - alas! - irretrievable.

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What is in those desires? -
the past never can be brought back.

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You chase after lost time,

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mortal, -

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But you cannot catch up -

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it is dead.

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And now I prepare

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to go into the northern wild woods,

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As in the old days, to delve
deep, as is the custom.

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Let our bison roar there,

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and let the echo of a wild roar
break through into the verse

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for the song's greater harmony.

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Let it fill the line, so that
it can be scrutizined,

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This wonder of distant
Lithuanian lands.

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Our fatherland

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is a land of wonders

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and mysteries:

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Perhaps it was God that wished

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that everything would be free,

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Or perhaps it is through the will of
magic that everything grows and dies.

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You can only hear how everywhere,
invitingly and tenderly

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The forest moos, and in the chills
of the earth you can barely hear

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The centuries-old oak groves
rustle with trembling leaves.

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Whoever has seen and heard this

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will probably say, -

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The music of our forests
is sweeter than the lyre

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And more inviting and stern than
the thunderous sound of trumpets.

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Amid the chorus of countless rustles

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this one takes the lead -
It is the voice of frantic blood.

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Oh, how many passions are excited

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By the voice of the hunt!

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How reverently the heart listens

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To the noise in the treetops;

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in the mute silence, like a wave,

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It now falls,

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now rises again into the sky.

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The bison

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is a warrior, and one has
to take him by force -

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Chest to chest, hand-to-hand,

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but not by deception.

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People have believed
since ancient times:

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he will leave the wilderness

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If in a fight it was not
strength that fought him,

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but cunning.

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Warriors!

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The despicable business of war evokes
My wrath, and tears, and pain.

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Endlessly, alone,

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We wage wars for all,
for the sacred brotherhood.

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The terrible enemy besieges us
and thirsts to exterminate us

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at the root.

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Meeting the enemy with our chests

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on the front line, like an outpost,

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We are bled dry,

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the sword has wounded our body.

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Our blood flows like rivers
and slows the advance

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Of the enemy hordes.

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Our neighbors have not been touched
by the whip of misfortune,

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The red rooster has not walked
along their pointed roofs.

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Their quiet comfort has not yet
been disturbed by anything,

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Only because our land
is ablaze with fires.

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Instead of helping us, they act

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In close alliance with the stranger,
in advice and deed

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With him in tandem,
expecting upon our destruction

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To quickly rise themselves,

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the arrogant double-dealers.

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Their thirst for conquests
will itself prepare

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Clanging chains for them

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and their children forever!

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His pointing finger is terrible,

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the Lord is incorruptible -

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And retribution will be carried
out on all the wicked.

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O most holy,

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most pure Virgin Mary!

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Hear our prayers and intercede
for the unfortunate!

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Turn your gaze to our fields,
across which

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Cruel wars roll like sea waves.

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O most holy, most pure Virgin Mary!

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screenwriter and director
Oleg Belousov

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art director
Vyacheslav Tarasov

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camera
Mihail Komov

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composer
Leonid Zakhlevnyy

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poem read by
Viktor Tarasov

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sound
Boris Shangin

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animators

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V. Bakunovich, A. Gorulev

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V. Dovnar, S. Kishov,
I. Kodyukova, A. Lysyatova

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script editor L. Balashova
production director L. Zubenko

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THE END
Belarusfilm, 1982

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Subtitles - Niffiwan
@ animatsiya.net, 2024