One of my ancestors was – surely a fiddler,
A rider and a thief, as well.
So my temper is of a vagrant kind, indeed,
And with a wind my hair smells.
Lo, isn’t it he, swarthy, who’s stealing something from arba
(* arba is name of the bullock cart in muslim countries)
With my hand – the apricots,
He is guilty for my passionate destiny, rather,
Curly-haired and hook-nosed!
And marveling at ploughman with wooden plough,
He circled in his lips – a dog rose.
He was the bad friend, – but the valiant
And the tender lover though.
He was the amateur of tobacco pipe,
Of moon and beads, and the girls-neighbours…
And also I think, that he was – coward,
My ancestor with eyes so yellow.
That, having sold his soul to the evil
For only cent, he didn’t like the graveyard!
And I think, that a knife he carried
Just under top of boot for safety.
That he for many times had jumped
From corners – at a cat – so lissom…
I catched the thought, that he, at last,
Can’t be – a master-fiddler!
And nothing could then embarass him,
As in summer – the last-year snow!
So – such as this old folk was a violinist,
I became at least – a poet!
23 june 1915
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