Poetry

Lord, I humbly beg of You, hear my reverend request, These are words straight from the heart, they are not spoken in jest.

 

First, a hundred thousand loaves, also fifty thousand pies, One hundred sixty thousand buns, profusely buttered on both sides.

 

A thousand piglets should suffice, if added to a thousand sows, With sixty of their young, some fifty thousand water buffaloes.

 

Ten thousand cows, a thousand oxen for a mustard stew, The trotters separately served in vinegar, with garlic too.

 

A thousand sheep in casserole, an equal sum of goats at most, But fifty thousand lambs and kids to grill upon the spit, or roast.

 

Innumerable chickens, ducks, and in the the same proportion, geese, Some to make succulent kebabs, and others to be fried in grease.

 

Pray let there be dish after dish of pigeons and of tender quail, Partridge and pheasant caught in nets, arriving in an endless file.

 

Fifty thousand pots of rice, and saffron puddings are inferred, A thousand pots of porridge, the butter with a drum-stick stirred.

 

Soups with pleasant flavouring, meatballs gently made, I beg, Ducklings, and on trays of brass, sweetmeats made of starch and egg.

 

Fifty thousand pasties and the same amount of baklava, Honey and almond cakes galore, and countless plates of fresh okra.

 

Helva fit for conquerors, served on trays and heaped in bowls, For eager fingers to scoop up, making quite enormous holes.

 

Forty thousand, fifty thousand pecks of apricot and cherry, Apple, pear and vintage grape, will be enough to make us merry.

 

Bektashi Cloud

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