Sun, Moon and Stars

I got up in the morning,
before the light of day.
What was my first task?
Big washing of my face,
large grooming of my hair,
quickly putting on my shoes.
      I trod my way to the pond,
made footsteps to the lake,
brought to drink to the Jutiks,
carried water to Kareses¹.
What did I find on leaving,
what on returning home?
I saw a horse dying,
a linen mane falling.
I ran over to watch –
I tore a horsehair, tore the other,
took them home to my mother.
      "My darling mother, tender mother,
my dear bearer, my little bird,
please, weave me big hankies,
make large tablecloths.
Weave the Moon signs to the end,
the Sun signs on the top,
pour copper yarn at the edge,
a Rainbow print in the middle of them.
Then the Moon will woo me,
the Dawn will bring betrothal wine."

      "Hello, beautiful sky-daughter,
under heaven, you wise child –
will you be a Sun's wife, 
the bride of the Sun's son?" –
"The Sun has a lot of trouble –
getting up in the morning
going down in the evening."
      "Hello, beautiful sky-daughter,
under heaven, you wise child,
will you be a Moon's wife,
a bride of the Moon's son?" –
"No, I won't be a Moon's wife,
a bride of the Moon's son.
The Moon has a lot of trouble –
sometimes waning, sometimes waxing,
and the third time it goes without."
      "Hello, beautiful sky-daughter,
under heaven, you wise child,
will you be a Star's wife,
a bride of the Star's son?" –
"I need to wed the Star,
to become a wife of the Star's son.
The Star has good horses,
the Star has nice oat eaters.
Their manes flutter on the clouds,
their heads dance to the heavens,
their lips make a reel,
their hooves weave fabric."

¹ Jutik, Kares – the names of the cows

Roll along, roll dear Sun,
Roll now by the creator's waters,
Sink down by way of the birch tree crowns!
      The Sun has no time to roll along:
the Sun is combing the heads of the serfs,
combing the heads of the herder children,
brushing the heads of the wretched,
smoothing the tresses of the maidens.
      The comb fell from the [sun's] hand into the sea,
the brush into the cold spring,
the rake into the waves,
the comb onto a vast coast.
      The Sun went to beg St. Peter:
“Peter, you son of a holy man,
Andrew, you son of an artisan,
go get my comb out of the sea,
the brush from the cold spring,
the rake from the waves,
the comb from the vast coast!”
      St. Peter did not listen to this prayer,
St. Andrew did not heed these good words.
The Sun went little by little,
the tiny one along the path,
the small one along the water,
the pretty one along the coast,
the setting one along the land.
The Sun brought it's comb from the sea,
the brush from the cold spring,
the rake from the waves.