Text: Jānis Peters | Translation: Laima Berziņa

Rūgst rīts kā mīkla maizes abrā.
Pret klonu mātes soļi klaudz.
Un klaipi, kļavu lapām klāti,
Uz lizes krāsnij mutē brauc.

Morning is rising like kneaded bread dough.
Mother’s footsteps clatter on the clay floor.
And loaves, covered with maple leaves,
travel on the peel into the mouth of the oven. 

Vēl jēri guļ ar zvaigznēm acīs,
vēl dēlu sapņos arkli guļ,
bet Māte Saule baltu sviestu,
kā mūžību uz sliekšņa kuļ. 

Lambs still sleep with stars in their eyes,
ploughs still lie idle in men’s dreams,
but Mother Sun churns white butter —
like eternity — on the threshold. 

Laiks ritēja pa saltu rasu;
trīs gadsimtus vai stundas trīs. 

Time rolled by through cold dew —
three centuries or hours three. 

Kad modāmies,
jau saule gāja
pa ošu gatvi debesīs.

When we awoke
the sun was already stepping
up through the ash trees into the sky.