Winter Over Not That Big a Street

.

.

It began since yesterday to fall

A mere flake

Now it stayed.

Clouds have got their revenge more or less

Towards twilight, yet they gather

Over the peasantry.

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It’s not sun, but it’s good

On the river, only smoke.

The fart’s quiet now,

But impetous petty pilgrim

On the road.

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Are children with many sledges

From the coast they come screaming,

They do pogo, jumping, grizzling

On the snow they eat potato wedges

Will or not.

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Blow they do like windmill’s wheel

And in chaos they set off

Like they crowd into railway station

Talkative sparrows, just when the clouds

Rains forsee.

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Traducerea: Vincentiu Iacob, fost student.

(va continua… cred)