The glances are transparent lakes
near the sickness of the springs.
Our presence is a smell
from freshly wet earth
and hung up bed-sheets
steaming hot white clothes
a brought to the verandas
after the morning fog.
We hung up everything in the sunlight
as if to celebrate
the memories of our ancestors
forgotten in the byways
of aged deaths
and in the dirty narrow wayward
of cantankerous climacteric.
Troubles, pains,
generous receptions,
are incidents in our life
as we rock our feelings
on the uncomfortable planks of ox-cart
with our glances propped-up
in eternal invocations
in streets empty from life.
What is this thing always hidden
in our life?
Maybe the cut head of a rebel,
a revolted pain
sought afterwards
to be risen from the dam
of our imperishable perseverance?
Maybe the seasonal fruits
forgotten on the kitchen table
like a flame of a fairy tale
which is extinguished after each awakening
when the men of the family
drowsily listen like small children?