The peasant man still burns his leaves br which rise into Romania’s skies br like smouldering stars above its eaves. br With grubby hands he shields his eyes, br br but cannot stop the acrid tears br from flowing down his ruddy cheeks. br The sum and meaning of his fears br are in the yellow smoke that reeks. br br His bale of hay receives a tine, br his scrawny hound a fleshless husk, br while in his sty a greedy swine br wades in the slop of early dusk.