I do remember a folk song, at all the times...
An old one, sung by the playful bagpipers, at inns:
“Do not dress you into the rags thrown by the boyars,
Stained raiment will deliver you the itchiness and their sins!”
Your love, exhibited into salons and mansion houses,
Extorted within alcoves of lust, by their muddy fangs,
Disfigured, husky, and limited it hangs
Like frigid lacing on bitter nakedness...
However, I’ve ardently accepted it, to alter,
To purify, to uplift it, to give it largeness.
Come as you are, dressed in your suit of murderer:
I’ll make you another, from hallo shininess.

Noble vestment, more lasting than the earth,
Is cloak of dreams in which is wrapping you your serf.

Monday, March 7, 1955