They say the woods of Alba
Grow secrets in their soil
And Perigord's fair regions
Hide rarest mushroom spoils
The truffle may be ugly
Dug up by dogs and pigs
But most agree its flavor
Is well worth humble digs
The oak tree seems to foster
This underground delight
Yet even seasoned woodsmen
Are clueless to this rite
Those of the finest learning
And gourmand savoir-faire
Have likened truffles' magic
To youth and love affairs
They also find its impact
Brings thoughts of fresh plowed earth
Fine, gentle rains in autumn
And spring's green, tender birth
So why should I, a woman
Of lowly mien and ways
Trust an old man in hospice
Recounting long gone days
Nobody would believe this
Yet father said I found
When still a tiny toddler
Those lumps in Kehra's ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem