"In the pots warmed the bigos; mere words cannot tell Of its wondrous taste, colour and marvellous smell. One can hear the words buzz, and the rhymes ebb and flow, But its content no city digestion can know. To appreciate the Lithuanian folksong and folk food, You need health, live on land, and be back from the wood. Without these, still a dish of no mediocre worth Is bigos, made from legumes, best grown in the earth; Pickled cabbage comes foremost, and properly chopped, Which itself, is the saying, will in one's mouth hop; In the boiler enclosed, with its moist bosom shields Choicest morsels of meat raised on greenest of fields; Then it simmers, till fire has extracted each drop Of live juice, and the liquid boils over the top, And the heady aroma wafts gently afar. Now the bigos is ready. With triple hurrah Charge the huntsmen, spoon-armed, the hot vessel to raid, Brass thunders and smoke belches, like camphor to fade, Only in depths of cauldrons, there still writhes there later Steam, as if from a dormant volcano's deep crater."
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Original Language: English
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Translated from Polish by Marcel Wayland
https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Bigos
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Bigos
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