In summer it's the countrysideWhere I reside.It was there I nearly died – Bored stiff with everything around,No comfort found –While the sun scorched up my hide. Out there, when days appear to drag, You'll find some hagPlaying doctor for the rest.Life, in its weakly throbbing state, Does not relateTo the comforts of the West. Licensing laws are a disgrace – There's no beer-place.The publican is prone to fleeceThe patrons with appalling stuff. His better halfHas it off with the police. When you walk along the high street, Mind your poor feet –Dust's the order of the day.Herds bound for a grazing session, In procession,Slowly move along the way, While mosquitoes in a cohort Under escortGoad you with their high-pitched whine,Their heads provided with a tool, Quite minuscule,(It's a nose of strange design). When the medic' makes a fuss, Villagers cuss –What do all them measures mean?Splashing such vast amounts of lime Just wastes their time –What's the purpose of hygiene? The village virgins, without shoes, Are sort of loose –At night they wait outside the fence.(Some of the things I witnessed there Are, to be fair,A most egregious offense). Some ancient hag, both deaf and dense, Who makes no sense,Drones the same old fairy-taleOf Prince Charming and his story StatutoryWhose details are awf'lly stale. Sleep subdues the village soon While the moonComes out for its nightly hike,And assumes a rural pose, As it growsYellow, big and pumpkin-like. The howling dogs give the odd blare From everywhere…Stars are stopping in their course,Their uncanny, ghostlike glow Hanging low,While the village snores and snores. Accursed cocks, at break of day, Sound the reveille,Making a most horrid noise –In case you think this lifestyle's nice, You should think twice,Before you crave bucolic joys. Considering the life out there, I do declare:Such cures are absolutely vain – Nature's restoring quality Is not for me,No matter what the torture, pain. Nature's for painters to cherish And then perish, With its dust, and heat, and all…I'd much rather have a street,Paved and neat,And a nice cinema hall. Like a sun-bloated butterfly Why should I die?That's not what I'm looking for.Simple farm-wives, peasant lore, Are such a bore…Honestly, I long for more. A city street's the thing for me, Where one is freeUpon a richer life to feast –With traffic, ladies wearing pearls, And walking girlsWho deign to wear their shoes at least. 1921
by George Topîrceanu (1886-1937)
