The Oakleaf

The darkest clouds won’t terrify me,
I can withstand the fiercest winds,
I cling to life, all storms defying,
As to its branch an oakleaf clings.

Through autumn rain and gloom despairing
It blazes with a copper glint,
And when a vicious wind comes tearing
The oakleaf merely sways and rings.

In winter, when the cold turns mean
And every night a blizzard blows,
The oakleaf valiantly screens
The mother branch on which it grows.

But when the spring its magic weaves
The oakleaf welcomes it, enlhralled,
And ceding place to young green leaves
Upon the ground it softly falls.

PETRUS BROVKA
(Translated by Olga Shartse)