Mother and father are beginning to die inside
Thirty years after their deaths in the storm
they withdraw quietly from my rooms,
from my moments of grace.
I'm sure about it. Voices and words have stopped,
they're free now. They no longer visit
my house, but not because they are angry.
A living man must be on his own.
Somewhere father is getting up early,
walking around in his sandals, pretending
as usual he doesn't see how mother cries
as she knits a warm sweater for her son,
camped on the way in the night.
translated by Shirley Kaufman
Copyright c 1986 by Oberlin College. May not be
reproduced without permission.