There is a cloister up north where you can knock on its oak door
and get food parcels. The abbot, a stern man, will give you food if
you are nicely dressed, have a house, band are briefly out of pockets.
If you are really destitute and dressed in rags- often of Roma
origin- he will tell you no because your need is self inflicted, but you
can, if not too lazy, go to the winter field and dig up roots; he will
bless you and say you are god´s children, go to heaven without a trial
and sit by the lord´s side.
If you are old he will also say no, because you have money
under the mattress and only pretend to be poor so you don´t have
to spend your own money, but he will bless you before kicking
you down hill with gentle smile. Once there were food banks in every
town, but now they are hard to find and far away, this because
the rich will no longer pay for you extravagance.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.