Funeral in Hungary
Rakob is dead, what is left of him travels
The ruts and the road puddles granite with frost.
He is dead and his Sunday suit on him, and the look of the dead
Like a wreath on his mouth for a while.
Six white oxen with black ribbons entwined
In their horns draw his hearse. He is lighter than pigroot,
Not so heavy as dung to them. Their collars are timber,
Their mouths slobber sweet with the morning.
Around his corpse roam the gypsy musicians
Singing wild high nostalgic, their gut strings bewailing
That Rakob is dead. Behind come the cattle
Yoked two by two, their tails hanging clean as silk tassels,
The weight moving slow as a heart's beat from split hoof to split hoof.
Behind, drawn by four piebald oxen, the family of Rakob
Wears clothes that are festive, the horns of the oxen
Are twisted with flowers. The music that stamps on foot by their wheels
Is foreign to grief; the jigs and the reels of the country dances
Danced with the flute and accordion playing.
Rakob wrote down the way these things should be,
Leaving his cattle and lands, his fortune and words
Set down in his last will and testament, saying:
" My cattle were my peaceful friends. Let them follow close to me when I go towards the grave.
Because of their innocence I have taken them into my heart
As if they were little children who came to me.
None of my people feel for them the gratitude they have earned
So I have put aside for them a portion of my wealth that they may die in peace,
Not of abuse, while laboring in the fields as they have always done.
I bid my relatives to follow me with music playing, wearing
Their dance dresses and colored waistcoats. My death will bring them ease
And so they must rejoice. I ask them not to allow the temptations of the city
To seduce them. Only a knowledge of the seasons can bring dignity to man.
But let an orchestra of gypsies wander beside me grieving
Who have cause to grieve now that their horses may no longer
Roam at night grazing in my pastures, now that they may no longer in the darkness
Gather my pine brush and light fires unmolested underneath my trees. "
The ruts and the road puddles granite with frost.
He is dead and his Sunday suit on him, and the look of the dead
Like a wreath on his mouth for a while.
Six white oxen with black ribbons entwined
In their horns draw his hearse. He is lighter than pigroot,
Not so heavy as dung to them. Their collars are timber,
Their mouths slobber sweet with the morning.
Around his corpse roam the gypsy musicians
Singing wild high nostalgic, their gut strings bewailing
That Rakob is dead. Behind come the cattle
Yoked two by two, their tails hanging clean as silk tassels,
The weight moving slow as a heart's beat from split hoof to split hoof.
Behind, drawn by four piebald oxen, the family of Rakob
Wears clothes that are festive, the horns of the oxen
Are twisted with flowers. The music that stamps on foot by their wheels
Is foreign to grief; the jigs and the reels of the country dances
Danced with the flute and accordion playing.
Rakob wrote down the way these things should be,
Leaving his cattle and lands, his fortune and words
Set down in his last will and testament, saying:
" My cattle were my peaceful friends. Let them follow close to me when I go towards the grave.
Because of their innocence I have taken them into my heart
As if they were little children who came to me.
None of my people feel for them the gratitude they have earned
So I have put aside for them a portion of my wealth that they may die in peace,
Not of abuse, while laboring in the fields as they have always done.
I bid my relatives to follow me with music playing, wearing
Their dance dresses and colored waistcoats. My death will bring them ease
And so they must rejoice. I ask them not to allow the temptations of the city
To seduce them. Only a knowledge of the seasons can bring dignity to man.
But let an orchestra of gypsies wander beside me grieving
Who have cause to grieve now that their horses may no longer
Roam at night grazing in my pastures, now that they may no longer in the darkness
Gather my pine brush and light fires unmolested underneath my trees. "
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