It’s not May yet, and nightingales do not sing. It is a cold evening, but it captivated us so much that we forgot about the dinner waiting for us on the table.
Just like this nightingale who was late for supper because he came on foot ...
The poem is so charming that you should be pleased to remember:
Julian Tuwim
A late nightingale
Crying singer lady in the acacia nest,
Because the nightingale was supposed to be for supper by nine.
That's how he always keeps regular hours,
And now after eleven - and the nightingale is gone!
Everything cools down: the soup with midges on evening dew,
Six mosquitoes stuffed in a lily-of-the-valley sauce,
Grilled butterfly, flavoured with a thick shadow of the wood,
And for dessert - a cake with a breeze in the moonlight.
Maybe somethung happened to him? Maybe they attacked him?
Grey feathers plucked, silver voice stolen?
It is because of jealousy! It is a skylark with a bunch of offsprings!
Feathers - stupidity, because they will grow back, but the voice - wealth!
Suddenly, he is back whistling, howling, jumping ...
"Where did you go, where did you fly? I'm crying here!"
And the nightingale sweetly chirping: "forgive me, my love,
But on such a beautiful evening I came on foot!"
Our dinner was more modest, but very Polish: herring, eggs with tartar sauce, and ... iced cold soplica vodka!! And for dessert, yeast cake smeared with "choco" jam - plum with Belgian chocolate.
