Mr Nightingale’s Late
By Julian
Tuwim
Translated
from Polish
Mrs.
Nightingale’s neat nest is filled with sob and wail,
Mr.
Nightingale’s not home yet, neither beak nor tail.
At nine was
the dinner ready and he’s never late,
It is
almost midnight now, so where’s my Nightingale?
All is
cold, including fly soup with the evening dew,
Six
mosquitoes stuffed and smothered with the primrose stew,
Roasted
butterfly well seasoned with the shade of trees,
Finally –
some moonlight cream-cake, which was made from breeze.
What if
something happened to him? Perhaps robbery?
Feathers
plucked, pure voice is stolen, what a misery!
Jealous
Lark with little fledglings did it, nasty sneer!
Feathers
nothing – they will grow back, but the voice is dear…
And there
comes old Nightingale, whistling, jumping, glad.
Whereabouts
have you been swooping? I’m all tears and mad!
And his
chirp reply’s as follows: I’m sorry, my pet,
But the
evening’s so alluring that I walked instead.
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