SONG OF THE BISON
Based on the eponymous poem by Nicolas Hussovianus
500 years ago.
Far from our Homeland, in Rome, was this poem written.
The great Renaissance era Belorussian poet Nicolas Hussovianus
in it exalted the beauty of his native land, its difficult fate,
and its people - strong, staunch of spirit,
and ready to stand up for their freedom.
The time of troubles has passed;
the memory only
Of a sad heart remains.
I return there in thought,
Day and night, always setting the net of memory.
Here I hunt for every priceless moment,
Once lost,
now - alas! - irretrievable.
What is in those desires? - the past never can be brought back.
You chase after lost time,
mortal, -
But you cannot catch up -
it is dead.
And now I prepare
to go into the northern wild woods,
As in the old days, to delve deep, as is the custom.
Let our bison roar there,
and let the echo of a wild roar break through into the verse
for the song's greater harmony.
Let it fill the line, so that it can be scrutinized,
This wonder of distant Lithuanian lands.
Our fatherland
is a land of wonders
and mysteries:
Perhaps it was God that wished
that everything would be free,
Or perhaps it is through the will of magic that everything grows and dies.
You can only hear how everywhere, invitingly and tenderly
The forest moos, and in the chills of the earth you can barely hear
The centuries-old oak groves rustle with trembling leaves.
Whoever has seen and heard this
will probably say, -
The music of our forests is sweeter than the lyre
And more inviting and stern than the thunderous sound of trumpets.
Amid the chorus of countless rustles
this one takes the lead - It is the voice of frantic blood.
Oh, how many passions are excited
By the voice of the hunt!
How reverently the heart listens
To the noise in the treetops;
in the mute silence, like a wave,
It now falls,
now rises again into the sky.
The bison
is a warrior, and one has to take him by force -
Chest to chest, hand-to-hand,
but not by deception.
People have believed since ancient times:
he will leave the wilderness
If in a fight it was not strength that fought him,
but cunning.
Warriors!
The despicable business of war evokes My wrath, and tears, and pain.
Endlessly, alone,
We wage wars for all, for the sacred brotherhood.
The terrible enemy besieges us and thirsts to exterminate us
at the root.
Meeting the enemy with our chests
on the front line, like an outpost,
We are bled dry,
the sword has wounded our body.
Our blood flows like rivers and slows the advance
Of the enemy hordes.
Our neighbors have not been touched by the whip of misfortune,
The red rooster has not walked along their pointed roofs.
Their quiet comfort has not yet been disturbed by anything,
Only because our land is ablaze with fires.
Instead of helping us, they act
In close alliance with the stranger, in advice and deed
With him in tandem, expecting upon our destruction
To quickly rise themselves,
the arrogant double-dealers.
Their thirst for conquests will itself prepare
Clanging chains for them
and their children forever!
His pointing finger is terrible,
the Lord is incorruptible -
And retribution will be carried out on all the wicked.
O most holy,
most pure Virgin Mary!
Hear our prayers and intercede for the unfortunate!
Turn your gaze to our fields, across which
Cruel wars roll like sea waves.
O most holy, most pure Virgin Mary!
screenwriter and director Oleg Belousov
art director Vyacheslav Tarasov
camera Mihail Komov
composer Leonid Zakhlevnyy
poem read by Viktor Tarasov
sound Boris Shangin
animators
V. Bakunovich, A. Gorulev
V. Dovnar, S. Kishov, I. Kodyukova, A. Lysyatova
script editor L. Balashova production director L. Zubenko
THE END Belarusfilm, 1982
Subtitles - Niffiwan @ animatsiya.net, 2024