DON’T CUT DOWN THE TREES , BROTHER WOODCUTTER

  DON’T  CUT  DOWN THE TREES , BROTHER  WOODCUTTER

Translated by  Micheal 

Balkrishna Sama

Don’t cut down the trees, brother

Woodcutter, they are our dead mothers,

And so they cannot even plead with us,

But always they protect us from sun and rain,

And seat us on their easy laps,

Then, making us take one footstep upward at a time,

Carrying  us in their bending  arms , they  lift us up onto  their shoulders

And suckle us from breasts filled with fruits and flowers,

They kiss our brows constantly with leafy lips,

Sighing for us, they ooze sap as they weep;

They sigh, but they cannot speak to us:

Don’t cut down the trees, brother woodcutter, they are our  dead mothers .

In the winter, when we are all gathered inside our homes,

WE sit around fires and sing and talk,

Then we got to beds and lie down,

We go under warm quilts and sleep soundly all night.

Outside the house, covering their heads with a veil of white frost,

Bow our dead mothers the tress, dozing, then startled, and silent.

They pass the night dreaming of our sunshine childhoods,

They hear us singing the songs that they taught us.

They bless our laughter all the time,

 They always love us and our warmth

But they cannot pour out their inner thoughts to us.

They wait for us until winter ends,

As soon as Sprig comes they spread out their arms,

And begin to summon us: o not cut off those arms,

Brother woodcutter, don’t cut down those trees, our dead mothers.