When the voice of my neighbours' rooster rings out in the pitch-black darkness and I have to sink my feet into thick fog slippers when I get out of bed, I open my mouth wide to fill it with three months of sunshine and foreign sweat. Mrs. Pattison, Mr. Zucchini and little Pumpkin - jump, all of you, into the oven's mouth! Feed my growling belly, lest it wake the wolves, lure the bears, and eat me!
Someone's love is jumping into their lap - windowsills full of light courgette bodies, cupboards full of round pumpkins. Happy are the people who have country folk! Maybe when the shelves at home are bursting with autumn bounty, when the numbers on the lids of the cake jars in the cellar reach back into the distant past, when the potatoes have sprouted long octopus tentacles and the cabbage barrel is roaring in the corner, bigger than myself, then one can feel the satiety. Still, I have no cellar and an insatiable appetite drives me to stuff my mouth with a pretzel with a pumpkin with a fish with a parrot with a shoe with a dog with a sheepskin coat with the latest electrical appliance. While I stuff my giant mouth into the corner, someone equally hungry shouts with an empty mouth. When they eat, I'll grill my horns against the wall and scream.
Put a crown of crows on my head, burn me in hot flames - may the harvest be good to the lords, may the hunger depart!
