In the timber hut at Sami
Fireside time’s great on a pitch-black night
when winds through the roof-hole are squeezing
and seizing the quick-leaping flames in flight
while the forests are mumbling and wheezing.
Cold’s on the prowl round each earth-cladded rent
to seek a way in for some biting;
finds one as well – when the fire’s warmth is spent
frost scrawls on the walls its white writing .
Heavy from our labour, a close-knit crew,
till peat-turfs’ last flickers stop spreading
and cold shakes us awake, night scarcely through,
we sleep on our brushwood bedding.
Hard is the lot we are forced to endure –
its aim – there’s but God’s explanation!
Mists that drift slowly and clouds that obscure –
no one knows their destination.
Nurtured by forests with never a claim,
our lives grew murky and gasping,
Men without friends, poor folk without name,
cogs in a wheel always rasping.
Our fate we should never call ill-starred,
we have warmth and food in good measure!
The needy are many, their lives are hard –
none but the dead peace may treasure.
To see the original poem, go to here