The Prince is waving good-bye. Good-bye Prince,
we shout as he ascends the steps of his coach,
Good-bye! Then he is gone with a contagion
of hooves pock-pocking the ground, and we, left
to our plaguey families and yet one
more season of disappointing crops, wave
good-bye. And just when we thought he would stay
with us awhile, meet the cousins, drink
punch or tea with us all day, our pinkies
extended, our faces a cultivated
euphemism. Good-bye! The Prince comes down
once a year-mostly, he simply drops by-
and we gather to him, a brilliant host
clad in our yearly best, our boots scraped clean,
our hair slicked flat as in courting-and meet
the coach from which he steps mumbling
a few words about the weather, while our tongues
form a few thick words of greeting,
So good to meet you Prince, so good...
And though we never get a chance to speak,
we bow our heads to him deferentially.
What nice boots the Prince has! And what reflection
we see of our faces there ennobles
us in that black gloss. To tell the truth,
we are happy when he goes, though tired
to have contributed so very much
to his raison d`etre. Another season
ends for us brilliantly, and we are free
again to wipe our mouths on our sleeves, or
to stay out of doors for days at a time, or
to loosen the winding cloths that keep
our wives in hand. We do, in fact, prefer this
life we lead, so rich, so uncommon.
And the poplars? They have grown stouter
by far. Next year, we shall cut them down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.