The Poem Of The Alcoholics Poem by Ion Mureşan

Alas, the poor, poor alcoholics,
to whom no one has a good word to say!
But especially, especially in the morning, when they go reeling along the walls
and sometimes they fall to their knees and they're like letters
traced by a cack-handed schoolboy.


But God, in His great goodness, puts a pub in their path,
because for Him it's easy, as easy as a child
pushing a box of matches with his finger. And
just as they reach the end of the street, around the corner,
where there was nothing before, like a rabbit
a pub leaps out in front of them and stops them dead.
Then a guileless gleam glints in their eye
and they sweat profusely, so great is their joy.


And by afternoon the town is like Tyrian purple.
By afternoon autumn comes thrice, spring comes thrice,
thrice migrate the birds to and from warm climes.
And they talk and talk, about life. About life,
just so, in general, and even the young alcoholics express themselves warmly, responsibly,
and if they stammer and if they stumble
it's not because they are expressing terribly profound ideas,
but because inspired by youth
they manage to say genuinely touching things.


But God, in His great Goodness, doesn't leave it at that.
Straight away He pokes a hole in the wall of Heaven with His finger
and invites the alcoholics to take a peek.
(Oh, when has such happiness even befallen a hapless man!)
And even if because of the shakes all they can glimpse is a patch of grass,
it's still something beyond measure.
Until one of them gets up and spoils it all. And he says:
"Soon, soon evening will come,
then we shall rest and we shall find great reconciliation!"
Then one after the other they get up from the tables,
wipe their wet lips with a handkerchief,
and are very, very ashamed.

Translation: 2007, Alistair Ian Blyth