We wrote your name on the snow, and white will grow
And rise in the large drifts, till the singing pale moon,
Then, in its a week`s journey, the scarlet wind will blow.
Blinding white will arrive at the old luminous steeple, soon;
There, after the season`s ritual sacrifice of the savory pig,
We keep the lard, without defile it, in the Advent`s noon.
If presents gather under the Christmas tree , angels in white
Descend from their glass sky with frozen flowers for the windows.
The villagers dream hot wine singing, swimming in their tired sight:
That is the question: Domestic wines, or lyrical Muscat Ottonel ?
Pair to varza calita - steamed cabbage with pork ribs .Idyllic picture …
Garlicky sausages and horse radishes surely brought just from the hell.
Each day, we have to take winter away from our large courtyard
Else, all will be buried in snow. We eat a table of the cold smoked lard
And other foods invented before the postmodernism of Lyotard.
Salata de boeuf - minced boiled vegetables with meat, mayonnaise
And a dash of mustard; Tzuica –plum brandy, all kind of grills
Cow tongue with olives , potateos , Snitzel Viennese or Malinese ,
Sarmale - minced meat with rice, wrapped in pickled cabbage leaves.