The lesson of history

My little son, the house of our grandparents is still there.
The house of their songs and their tears.
I have spent my holidays there.

In the web of stock-chamber
There is still the smell of mint preserved
Of dried pears and cold soup.

There love has still remained
In postcards and letters full of dust.
Because the grandfather has not come back.

And on the picture there is my aunt.

Through purple glimmer of the crown of hip
Pushes the soft tin of the sun through.
It looks upon us each morning
Judst the same
As the same
Each day richer and richer.
Grandmother will be waiting for us.



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Jakob Skorupa