Prevod
Often, when you pass a field of buckwheat after a thunderstorm, you find it quite black and scorched, as though a flame had swept over it, and the farmer says, “Lightning has done that!” But why has it happened? I shall tell you what the sparrow told me, and the sparrow heard it from an old willow tree that stood beside a field of buckwheat and stands there still. It is a great, venerable willow, but gnarled and old, split right down the middle, with grass and bramble runners growing out of the cleft. The tree leans forward, and its branches hang straight down towards the earth, like long green hair.
In all the fields around it grew grain, rye and barley and oats—yes, those lovely oats that, when ripe, look like a whole flock of little yellow canaries perched on a branch. The grain flourished so richly, and the heavier its ears grew, the lower it bowed in pious humility.
But there was also a field of buckwheat, just opposite the old willow tree. The buckwheat did not bow at all, as the other grain did, but held itself proudly erect!
“I am surely as rich as any ear of grain,” it said, “and much more beautiful besides. My blossoms are as lovely as those of the apple tree; it is a delight to look at me and mine! Do you know anything more splendid than us, you old willow tree?”
And the willow nodded its head, as though to say, “Yes, indeed I do!” But the buckwheat bristled with pride and said, “Stupid tree! It is so old that grass is growing in its belly!”
Now a terrible storm began to gather. All the flowers of the field folded their petals or bowed their delicate heads as the wind swept over them, but the buckwheat held its head high in its pride.
“Bow your head as we do!” said the flowers. “I have no need to!” said the buckwheat. “Bow your head as we do!” cried the grain. “Here comes the angel of the storm, flying towards us! His wings reach from the clouds above right down to the earth, and he will cut you in two before you can beg him for mercy!”
“But I will not bow!” said the buckwheat. “Close your flowers and fold your leaves!” said the old willow tree. “Do not look up at the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even human beings dare not do that, for in the lightning one can see into God’s heaven, but that sight can strike even human beings blind. What, then, would happen to us, the plants of the earth, if we dared it—we who are so much lowlier!”
“So much lowlier!” said the buckwheat. “Now I mean to look into God’s heaven!” And in its arrogance and pride it did so. The lightning flashed so fiercely that the whole world seemed ablaze.
When the storm had passed, the flowers and grain stood in the still, pure air, wonderfully refreshed by the rain. But the lightning had burned the buckwheat coal-black; it was now a dead, useless plant in the field.
And the old willow stirred its branches in the wind, and great drops of water fell from its green leaves, as though the tree were weeping. The sparrows asked, “Why are you crying? It is so lovely here! See how the sun shines, see how the clouds drift by! Can you smell the fragrance of the flowers and bushes? Why are you crying, old willow tree?”
And the willow told them of the buckwheat’s pride, arrogance, and punishment—for punishment always follows. I, who tell this story, heard it from the sparrows! They told it to me one evening when I asked them for a fairy tale.
