Eduard Bagritsky
Till Eulenspiegel

In a springtime, before noon, the kitchen door
Is open wide and heavy fumes escape.
They shove and push inside.
The cook, all heated up, wipes his face
On an apron full of holes.
Lifting the copper cover,
He peaks into the pots and bowls.
He yawns and throws more coal
Into the stove already blazing.
Topped by a tall cook's cap, the kitchen boy
Struggles up the ladder to reach high shelves
Then pounds some cinnamon and nutmeg
And messes up condiments
And coughs because of smoke
That fill his nostrils and
Makes him cry...
This day in spring is very clear.
The crying of the swallow blends
With the grumbling of pots and pans.
Licking his chops, the purring cat
Sneaks up under the chairs to
Just that spot where a cut of beef,
All covered with a veil of fat,
Had been forgotten.
O, kitchen kingdom! Who has not sung
The bluish smoke that issues from the roasting meat,
The light steam above the golden soup?
The cock, who might be killed tomorrow
By the cook, crows coarsely forth
A merry praise to this so splendid art
Most difficult and pleasure-yielding...
This very day I go along the street,
Staring at the roofs and reading verses.
My eyes are dazzled by the sun,
My drunken no-good head is dizzy.
And breathing in the bluish fumes, I do recall
That vagabond who wandered
Just like me perhaps
Along the street of Antwerp...
Adroit in everything and knowing nothing,
A knight without a sword, a plowman
With no plow, he too was tempted by a ham
And greedily he swallowed his saliva.
His day in spring was sweet and clear.
The breeze with a maternal hand
Had tossed his tangled curls.
And, leaning on a door frame,
That merry pilgrim, just like me perhaps,
Hummed indistinctly while putting words together
For a song not yet invented...
What of it? Let my lot be homeless
And unruly. Let me stand famished
Under kitchen windows, inhaling smells of feasts
Prepared for others.
Let my clothes turn shabby.
Let me unlearn to make up songs...
What of it? 'Tis other things I crave...
Let me, just like that vagabond, traverse
All of the country and warble
By each door and hear at once
The answer of a singing cock!
A singer without a lute, a warrior without a weapon,
I shall greet the days like cups
Brimful of milk and honey.
However, when fatigue will conquer me
And I shall fall into the strongest deadly sleep,
Let them design my gravestone escutcheon!
A heavy staff of ash
Atop a broad-brimmed hat and bird.
And let them write: "Here lies in peace
A merry pilgrim who never cried."
Passerby! Ir you cherish nature,
The wind, the song and freedom, say:
"Comrade, sleep in peace. You've sung enough.
It's time to sleep your fill!"

Translated by Vera Dunham