LITMIR.BIZ

      Did it happen or not, I don’t know.

      But today, I must confess to you,

      That I want to write about it,

      And the poet’s mission is strange…

      Let the language be neither scant nor proud,

      And simple, like the common folk.

      So, I started my tale,

      A narrative and a story.

      In those medieval times lived

      A girl, alone in the world,

      Her name was Marianne.

      She wore a black hood

      On her head, and a cloak.

      “Marianne!” her mother called,

      We need to prepare for the market:

      All kinds of dishes and trinkets,

      To survive – despite fate.

      Those were hard times,

      She lived in Italy,

      The plague raged everywhere,

      And war took lives.

      Darkness loomed, heavy…

      The air was tense, and evil froze.

      Marianne and her mother were alone,

      She did not remember her father.

      Hunger and shame were everywhere,

      Their every step was watched.

      They prayed to saints in those times,

      Marianne grew up fully;

      She became beautiful and smart,

      Unaware of it herself.

      To avoid the plague,

      She went to the market for water.

      Filling her pitcher,

      She wandered through the city.

      At the market gate,

      There sat a black cat:

      Huge, fat, black cat,

      Smiling widely.

      “Chur! It seemed! I’m sick!

      I must need a walk!”

      Turning away from the market,

      She went for a walk in the city.

      By the fountain in the garden,

      I’ll pluck a red rose;

      I must not be sad – no way,

      I like life, it’s a trifle.

      I’ll pluck a rose, though the thorns are sharp:

      They’ll prick my finger like needles.