Вершы. Мы беларусы

 

                                               Вершы. Мы беларусы.                                            

 

                                                                                            Аляксей Якімовіч

Працавіты беларус

 

Ляціць, кружыцца жаўрук,

                                                       Песеньку спявае.

                                                       Працавіты беларус

                                                       Поле засявае.

 

                                                       Палье зямлю дожджык –

                                                       Вырасце пшаніца.

                                                       Каравай духмяны

                                                       Спячэ маладзіца.

 

                                                       У бары сасновым

                                                       Зязюля кукуе.

                                                       Працавіты беларус

                                                       Дом сабе будуе.

 

                                                       Высокія сцены

                                                       Падмурак трымае.

                                                       Як грыбок у лесе,

                                                       Домік падрастае.

 

                                                       Хмаркі праплываюць,

                                                       Грэюцца вароны.

                                                       Працавіты беларус

                                                       Косіць луг зялёны.

 

                                                      Сонца прыўзнялося,

                                                      Стаіць над ракою.

                                                      Наваколле пахне

                                                      Свежаю травою.

 

                                                      Павучок на павуцінцы

                                                      З ветрыкам лятае.

                                                      Працавіты беларус

                                                      Гасцей сустракае.

 

                                                      Бубен б’е заўзята,

                                                      Скрыпка выцінае,

                                                      На вясёлы танец

                                                      Баян запрашае.

 

                                                      У небе кружыцца жаўрук,

                                                      Крыльцамі махае.

                                                      Працавіты беларус

                                                      Усюды паспявае.

                                                                            2023 год

 

 

                                                                                       Аляксей Якімовіч

                                                              Мой род

 

                                                            І ўлетку, і ўзімку

                                                            Я крочу дамоў.

                                                            Мой род старажытны

                                                            Тут жыў шмат гадоў.

 

                                                          Зямлю ён араў,

                                                          На ёй сеяў зярняты,

                                                          Сярпочкам зжынаў

                                                          Ураджай свой багаты.

 

                                                          Тут скрыпка гучала,

                                                          Гармонік іграў.

                                                          Мой род у святліцах

                                                          Вяселлі спраўляў.

 

                                                          Калі ж вораг прагны

                                                          Прыходзіў з бядою,

                                                          Мой род не скараўся,

                                                          Уставаў грамадою.

 

                                                          Мой род з ласкі Бога

                                                          Тут мову стварыў,

                                                          У часінку сівую

                                                          На ёй гаманіў.

 

                                                          Ля рэчкі імклівай

                                                          Тут мова гучала,

                                                          З жанчынамі ў полі

                                                          Прыгожа спявала.

 

                                                          Ляцелі імгненні,

                                                          Міналі гады.

                                                          Мой род не старэў,

                                                          Быў заўжды малады.

 

                                                          Мой род, маё шчасце,

                                                          Табой ганаруся,

                                                          Стаю прад бажніцай

                                                          І шчыра малюся.

 

                                                          За нашу крынічку,

                                                          За родную мову,

                                                          За луг аксамітны

                                                          І нашу дуброву.

 

                                                         На вуснах малітва,

                                                         У душы цеплыня.

                                                         Мой род, не згінайся.

                                                         Зямля тут твая.

                                                                             2023 год.

 

                                                                                              Аляксей Якімовіч

Я ў правінцыі жыву…

 

Я ў правінцыі жыву,

                                                            Я тут нарадзілася,

                                                            У царкве вясковай

                                                            З мамай памалілася.

 

                                                            Памалілася за блізкіх

                                                            І за вёсачку сваю.

                                                            Перад ёю на каленях

                                                            Я стаяла і стаю.

 

                                                            Я ў правінцыі жыву.

                                                            Сонца тут ўзнімаецца.

                                                            Тут Радзіма – Беларусь –

                                                            Мая пачынаецца.

 

                                                            Вецярочак тут лагодны,

                                                            Як каханы, даганяе,

                                                            Лашчыць ручанькі і ногі

                                                            І за плечы абнімае.

 

                                                            Тут сцяжынкі я таптала

                                                            Разам з сонцам па расе.

                                                            Тут з сяброўкамі гадала,

                                                            Ці лёс шчасце прынясе.

 

                                                            Тут на поле я хадзіла,

                                                            Працавала на зямлі.

                                                            Мне здаецца, што заўсёды

                                                            Адчуваю пах раллі.

 

                                                            Тут з рачулкай сябравала,

                                                            Плыла смела на той бок,

                                                            Дзе пад летнім сонцам грэўся

                                                            Залацісты беражок.

 

                                                            Тут падкоўкай лес цягнуўся.

                                                            З братам ягадкі збірала.

                                                            Непрыкметная зязюля

                                                            Для мяне тут кукавала.

 

                                                            Словы даўняй Беларусі

                                                            Ад старэйшых тут пачулі.

                                                            Тут сярпочак выгінасты

                                                            Мне дастаўся ад бабулі.

 

                                                            Дасталіся песенькі.

                                                            Цешаць, забаўляюць,

                                                            У прасторнай хаце

                                                            Нас яны збіраюць.

 

                                                            Мой сынок тут узмужнеў,

                                                            Да мяне спяшаецца.

                                                            Тут Радзіма – Беларусь –

                                                            Крочыць, выпрамляецца.

 

                                                            Не сяджу я склаўшы рукі.

                                                            Райскі сад ствараю.

                                                            Прыязджайце падзівіцца.

                                                            Шчыра запрашаю.

                                                                                    2024 год

 

                                                                                               Аляксей Якімовіч

Не перавядуцца

 

                                                           Туман сцелецца над рэчкай,

                                                           Сцежачкі хаваюцца.

                                                           Хлопец і дзяўчына

                                                           За рукі трымаюцца.

                                                            За рукі трымаюцца,

                                                            У каханні прызнаюцца.

                                                            Беларусы на зямлі

                                                            Не перавядуцца.

 

                                                            У беларусаў каля хат

                                                            Кветкі расцвітаюць.

                                                            Беларусы у краіне

                                                            Парадак ствараюць.

 

                                                          Беларусаў у чужых землях

                                                          Цэняць, паважаюць,

                                                          Як жаданых, дарагіх,

                                                          У сябе прымаюць.

 

                                                         Беларускі селянін

                                                         Працы не баіцца.

                                                         Яго клічуць луг і поле.

                                                         У хаце не сядзіцца.

 

                                                         Беларусы косяць,

                                                         Сеюць, даглядаюць,

                                                         Восенню багаты

                                                         Ураджай знімаюць.

 

                                                         У гарадку раённым

                                                         “Дажынкі” адзначаюць,

                                                         Танчаць і спяваюць,

                                                         Сябе забаўляюць.

 

                                                         Па ўсім наваколлі

                                                         Нашы песні льюцца.

                                                         Беларусы на зямлі

                                                         Не перавядуцца.

 

                                                          Не чакайце гэтага,

                                                          Паночкі-зладзеі.

                                                          Беларусы ў Беларусі

                                                          Шукаюць надзею.

 

Беларусаў як паклічу,

                                                           У мяне збяруцца.

                                                           Беларусы на зямлі

                                                           Не перавядуцца.

                                                                              2024 год