by Nikola Vaptsarov

She tried to get in with the morning shift,
the motor grumbled,
Looking stern and grim:
"You can't do that!
I must account for it.
Go ask the porter,
if he'll let you in!"

But somehow she was full of willfulness
and didn't ask the porter,
just slipped through;
a dormer opened wide behind a press,
then stuck her tongue out
at the motor crew.

And all at once an engine started humming,
the workers seemed
so clumsy and so slow,
the motor, what the motor was,
soon seeing,
cried out in anger:
"She has got to go!"

"Oh, no!" a ladle of cast-iron cried
with an ironic smile on his kind face.
"You silly, blatterring fathead, just you try it!
We'll go on strike for her, if that's the case."

The motor hushed. The breeze brought
on its wings
the teasing smell of earth
from far away.
A distant hum about the engine rings,
and steps
of plodding feet
along the way.

And all, who once the soil with joy
had ploughed,
like horses snorted, with their nostrils spread;
the others flung the windows wide and laughed
and looked up
at the blue sky
overhead.

Behind an engine someone
rudely swore,
a girl stuck up a merry tune and hushed.
A young man shot at her
a dart of fire,
she looked away and blushed.

The porter opened quietly the door,
said: "Who's got in? Will have to go,
he will!"
But saw, smiled guiltily down at the floor,
the scratched his head
and whistled
and was still.