A grey old man
Is sitting on his bench in hut.
The window, very small
Lets no light in at all.
Being open, the door
Brings some light into the room.
A beam of sunlight slowly
Crawls along the floor.
The old man is busy,
He’s patching up his bast shoes.
His hands are rather clumsy
Because of old age.
We see the sunbeam moving,
Moving slowly again.
And all at once at lightning speed
It jumps on the old grey head.
The Whitsunday of summer
Fills his heart with joy.
And the sun shining brightly
Makes his locks of hair glitter.

* * *

Muttering and puffing
While patching up his bast shoes,
He doesn’t even see or hear
Anybody come to him.
At the door, it being open
An old woman stands.
To the busy old man
Kindly words she says.
The woman speaking warmly
Setner’s old mother was.
Her son Setner, poor thing
Was seized with an evil spirit.
That is why his mother
Came to the old quack.
And with sorrow in her heart
Told him her grief.
For a long time they sat
Speaking warmly, quietly.
Every now and then they
Recollected bygone days.

* * *

At long last the old man
Conceded to the old woman.
And the latter in her turn
Promised him a new shirt and socks.
And the old man stood up
Leaving his work for a while.
Came up to the door
And shut it with a poker.
Having put on a sheepskin coat,
He took his cap under his arm.
Put a hackle beneath his feet,
Took a coin in his hand.
With his beard stroked
And his hair combed.
With blind eyes he stared
At the coin with care.

* * *

Staring at the coin,
He stroked his beard again.
And quietly he said,
Turning to the old woman:
“A hole in his head will never close,
A wound in his heart will never heal.
He has nothing to do
To overcome God’s will.
The Lord has granted him
A gentle heart and ardent blood.
The Lord predestined him
Life-span so short and days so hard.
Cold days will come,
His ardent blood will freeze.
These hard times will turn
His gentle heart to ice.
With the air becoming hot,
The frozen blood will warm.
And while melting, the icy
Heart will burn away, for ever...”

* * *

The old man grew silent,
Became thoughtful for a while.
Having put his sheepskin coat
And then his cap on the bench.
The old man said again
Turning to the old woman
(Who was sitting on the bench,
Rocking her body to and fro):
“This is not the evil spirit,
No dirty deed of Kiremet,
Nor pestilence of any kind,
Nor bewitchment, evil eye.
No, my dear, your son
Is in God’s power.
Crying is of no help,
You can’t withstand the Lord.”

* * *

Having said these words, the old man.
Had nothing to do
And settled to his own work,
And no more word pronounced he.
Bending her head to the breast,
The mother grieving went away.
The old man got down
To patching up his bast shoes.
Muttering and puffing,
Sits he in perplexity.
How did this happen?
He asked himself the question.
Very often people came
To be told fortunes.

I used to tell untruth
And deceived them many times.
How did it happen now?
Did I really tell the truth?
I was going to cheat,
What a wonder! Am I right?