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My village

The mountains rich in stone,
The meadows full of grass,
The fields replete with wheat,
Beyond them is a river.

Across from it the village
With church and rows of gravestones,
And standing all around it
Are humble, tiny houses.

Frigid is the water,
The wind blows, but no matter,
The nightingale proclaims it:
Gazelle-like are the women.

Lying in the shade, men
Playing, busy chatting,
Misfortune cannot strike them,
For they're living off their women.

Women in the fields, and
In the vineyards, women,
Women harvest hay, all
Day and night a-toiling.

Women do the threshing,
Reap the harvest, women,
Leaving before sunrise,
After dark returning!

For their husbands, women
Scorch out in the sunshine,
Working, never resting
Not even on a Sunday!

Poor Albanian woman,
All the time a-slaving,
And when homeward's wending,
Makes both lunch and supper.

What about your husband
Lounging by the fountain?
Oh, my wretched woman,
You run, too, the household!

Submitted: Friday, August 24, 2012


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