the_GoDdEsS
04-17-2006, 03:55 PM
The church bells announce another quarter an hour. A pattern you’re used to. Twelfth month in cabbage town and not much has changed. The spring air is fresh, yet does not carry the sweet smell of cow shit yet. There’s not much to graze on in April.
The people still drink their wine and eat their cabbage. The fields are still there, ready to receive seeds of life, fertile like a woman in her mid-twenties. At the commencement of spring the crows feed on them like a pleague. But once they’re gone, the cabbageheads replace them, eagerly planting their potatoes and crops. And the man, frantically wading through his field, tearing out what does not belong there. Occassionally you hear a spree of obscenities. That’s when you know his tractor does not work.
The women attending their cabbage and vegetables, hoping for a good harvest and the best cabbage to win prizes on Cabbage Days. That’s when they all display a head in front of their house, trying to lure you in to buy. To make your own sour cabbage from.
Twelfth month in cabbage town and not much has changed. The dogs still bark at you from behind the fences of the millionaires houses. The gypsies still push their carts full of borrowed pipes and metal. Ready to be sold. And you wonder where your taxes go.
The babushkas still ride their bicycles through the main road. And the cabbageheads still speak their Southwestern dialect, with a hard accent ringing in your ears. It all sounds so foreign to you, because you’re a Northerner.
The mafiosos still meet at the café around the corner, discussing whom to bury next. And the birds are still trying to build that nest over your window. This year possibly with bird flu.
Twelfth month and not much has changed in cabbage town. The buses arriving from capital village are still crowded. But you get off at 8:25pm. Walking straight to a small bottleshop, the last one open at this hour. To get your wine, to get your cigarettes. You get off, only to find out it has been torn down.
Not much has changed in cabbage town. Except for the bottle shop. And you’re still not a cabbagehead.
The people still drink their wine and eat their cabbage. The fields are still there, ready to receive seeds of life, fertile like a woman in her mid-twenties. At the commencement of spring the crows feed on them like a pleague. But once they’re gone, the cabbageheads replace them, eagerly planting their potatoes and crops. And the man, frantically wading through his field, tearing out what does not belong there. Occassionally you hear a spree of obscenities. That’s when you know his tractor does not work.
The women attending their cabbage and vegetables, hoping for a good harvest and the best cabbage to win prizes on Cabbage Days. That’s when they all display a head in front of their house, trying to lure you in to buy. To make your own sour cabbage from.
Twelfth month in cabbage town and not much has changed. The dogs still bark at you from behind the fences of the millionaires houses. The gypsies still push their carts full of borrowed pipes and metal. Ready to be sold. And you wonder where your taxes go.
The babushkas still ride their bicycles through the main road. And the cabbageheads still speak their Southwestern dialect, with a hard accent ringing in your ears. It all sounds so foreign to you, because you’re a Northerner.
The mafiosos still meet at the café around the corner, discussing whom to bury next. And the birds are still trying to build that nest over your window. This year possibly with bird flu.
Twelfth month and not much has changed in cabbage town. The buses arriving from capital village are still crowded. But you get off at 8:25pm. Walking straight to a small bottleshop, the last one open at this hour. To get your wine, to get your cigarettes. You get off, only to find out it has been torn down.
Not much has changed in cabbage town. Except for the bottle shop. And you’re still not a cabbagehead.