Once upon a time there lived an old man together with his old woman.
They had a speckled hen.
Once the hen had laid an egg not the usual one but a golden thing.
The old man had been beating the egg but couldn't break it.
The old woman had been hitting it but the egg just wouldn't split open.
There and then a mouse came running up and wagged with its tail, the egg got rolling down and had smashed to atoms.
The old man was weeping and the old woman was crying, still the speckled hen said clucking:
-Stop weeping, old man! Old woman, stop crying!
I shall lay an egg yet for you not the golden one but a usual thing.
In silence happiness has suddenly knocked at my door, have you really come to see me? I believe and at the same time I point-blank refuse to do it at all! It was snow, it was a dawn, it was the drizzling autumn. Tell me please where on earth you have been for so many years?
All of a sudden as in a dream the door has squeaked. Now everything has become clear to me. For ages I have been arguing with my destiny for the sake of this meeting with you. I sailed over the seas and I suffered from both hunger and cold on the way to my purpose. Now I know it was not in vain, all in my life was to the point and full of sense.
At last it has happened, it has come true now! Even don't think of asking me how without you the world has been treating me. Who waits for happiness that one shall overcome everything, however very hard it may be. If only all of it were not in vain.God forbid!
The whole world is a theatre,
and also people are its actors,
but what a nuisance,
it is not fairly clear
who is its playwright,
it is the odd chance, though,
as sure as eggs is eggs. After all,
if not it, then who on earth else!
Its scenery is the nature.
Time is its make-up artist.
Maybe a great secret
is its stage-director.
Yet then there can be no doubt
in that God is alone
both its spectator
and its connoisseur.
Time after time the life
seems to us like a tragedy,
ups and downs compose
its simple and plain plot.
The shroud is as a fallen curtain.
Sometimes the sad end
resembles not a ridiculous farce
and the heroic death
looks like a star turn.
