The relics of the gone age
Underlie ground’s layer,
Fertile, but infected:
Here ramble, scramble and crawl
Invisible glutton germs,
Rats, bearer of the pest.
Moles and worms,
Maggots and graceful earwigs…
Here is the perfect inferno –
The most atrocious crimes
Is befalling in the crunching symphony
Of the jaws in eternal move.
The bold and aggressive life
Devour a life most shy
And most defenceless.
The moles eat the flower’s bulbs,
And disgusting big earwigs
Avid pare the shoots
With a marvelous name – pomo d’oro,
That not never ripen their gold,
Till a red blooding color…
Their fruits not will come on the table
In shining crystal bowl.
But the bones of dead farmers keep silence,
Them it is all the same!
Their old enemies are now friends,
Even they, across age,
Remain the enemies for the present farmers!
The translation of Natalia Bajureanu