You don’t have to be a sad bastard to be a poet,
Stop taking revenge on life,
Nobody said that the forecast will be sunny every day,
But between that, and making your own rain,
There’s certainly a long way.

The baker’s grandfather died yesterday,
But he kept on making bread,
And distributed it today,
He couldn’t let the village starve,
And the honk of his blue van is a constant alert.

He also keeps candies in the passenger seat,
For the agglomerating little children,
And for those mothers who, on a whim of a motherly instinct,
Decide to forego the spare he’s going to give back,
For a glitter in their little ones’ eyes,
Or for the anticipation of the visit of their grandchildren,
Early in the afternoon.

Look at that baker who,
On the day of his granfather’s death,
Still finds enough strength,
To bake, distribute, put candy in the passenger seat of his blue van,
Honk and smile and take it like a man,
He’s a hundred times more poet than you are.

All these people he sold bread to,
Will be in the funeral in the afternoon,
Even that woman who bitches that he comes late,
Even when he actually comes a little too early,
Even she, will be there,
A poet is anyone who can feel with people,
Anyone who can sympathize.

“Tante Marie” is expecting her daughter Jeanette to bring little Joey,
Named after his grandfather Joseph,
Marie told the baker that she wanted two “rabtas” of bread,
To last her through the weekend,
And a liquorice-flavored candy – Joey’s favorite,
Even on such a sad day,
He remembered the liquorice-flavored candy,
And so if that’s not poetry, then please tell me what is!

You can be a sad bastard if you wish,
But that will not make a poet out of you,
It will only make you a sad bastard.

… And give us our daily bread!
Even on the day of your grandfather’s funeral.