In The Cottage

There's а smell of crumbly ovencake, By the door - a tub of kvass. Round the niches on the stove wall Cockroaches creep into cracks. There's а wisp of smoke by the stove-door, In the grate white ash of great length And egg-shells freshly broken By the salt box upon the bench. The oven-fork Mother can't steadily Handle, she has to bend down, While the old cat's heading stealthily For the milk fresh from the cow. The hens are clucking restlessly, Perched on the wooden plough shafts, The cocks in the yard start rendering In concert an early mass. At the entrance, where the porch is, By the bustle terrified Puppies crawl into dark corners Under yokes and sacks to hide.