you gave to me a wooden horse
no skin of steel, no men inside
a children’s toy that in due course
would lose its magical delight
the day has come to join the force
and to the battlefield we stride
with all we have: the grave remorse
that here we rock where we should ride
why this ridicule, this pitiful defeat?
your gift played its deceitful role
hear, there speaks the dying steed:
‘you had no chance, my little foal
that’s why he sent his finest breed
but not to combat, to console’
I don’t usually write in English – I feel not comfortable with my English proficiency to express myself as I would in my native language. I believe translating literary texts is a craft not to be underestimated. But I still like this little sonnet, that I wrote about ten years ago, when I spoke English on a daily basis at university.
