What does a woman usually do
After drudging in the kitchen
So that ordinary things would sleep, dutifully,
Within the cares’ dark ring of the day?
First she wipes her forehead with her right hand,
She sits down on a stool near the table,
She makes smooth
The laced table cloth
With her left hand,
Then she embraces her temples,
Slipping for a while
In an imaginary slumber,
A long train of portraits – the people she loves
Roaming her.
A bit later she carefully allows
The dusk
To overrun the room, a kind of some bitter foam.
Over and over. Every evening.
She turns the lights off
And secludes, not to give rise
To a riot of things.
She keeps silent every moment…
The woman starts resembling so much
The ordinary things surrounding her,
That, if you approached her,
You could mistake her
For a tea spoon,
For a coffee cup or
For a porcelain angel.