POEM
Smoke from the stoves through the frosty haze Brick chimneys draw up to the sky. And along the street a gypsy strays, Selling his new sheepskin, standing by. He's selling! And not for a jest—in truth! The gypsy knows all the signs well. He knows: though the winter is sharp, uncouth, The sun has turned towards summer's spell. He knows that the springtime will soon arrive… A month or two, just to roughly surmise— And who will then want to keep alive This costly sheepskin coat, its price? Though around there is cold and much ice, And winter is still in its greatest delight. But the coat's value will drop in a trice In February, and especially in March's light. And in April the snow will begin to melt, The wagon-train will set out on its long road, And the gypsy women, the shame he'll have felt, Will laugh at the man and his heavy load. Though it may be the only one he owns, And without it he'll struggle to be snug— Look, spring over the mountains is shown, Seen past the frost and the blizzard's hug. Look—the gypsy walks down the dusty lane. The coat on his shoulder, a burden of plight… Have pity, dear people, on this man's pain. Though his goods are expensive, they're truly good and bright!
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