Stii diferenta intre vis si realitate? Poti face visele sa devina realitate, poti fii tu insuti si poti iubi?
Tot un copac. Si in caz ca te-ntrebi, acolo sunt. Respirand visele ce s-au lovit de falsitatea, singura, nu cea mai urata, dar tot rece, a ta. Au inflorit flori de gheata pe crengi, seara de ieri nu va fi iertata decat in ziua cand vei avea curaj sa ma privesti in ochi si sa te scuturi de ceea ce niciodata nu trebuia sa fie intre noi.
Home
Home is the swish of mother’s dresses,
the gray striped tablecloths
and the brownish table, the wardrobe
with its doors you are not allowed to touch.
Home is the rustle of silence,
when all the kids are at school.
(who;s whispering? who speaks,
if there’s no one at home?)
.
Home is the slammed door in the afternoon, the wet shoes
and the quarrels when we share the bread, at dinner,
(who will take the biggest loaf?)
and how’s gonna be spent the money…
Home is mother and how she loves dad
(not to be spoken about, we pretend not to see
anything of what still, exists!)
.
Dad is beautiful and bright, in his eyes
the fluttering of a flag,
his dreams reach the sky.
Hope is a burden, and he lays his forehead
often, upon the kitchen table
(money is never enough)
.
But home is mostly mom,
the the caring in her kind eyes,
and her hands, when sad fingers count
the Church bills and the money
(that is never enough)
.
Home is the tenderness desired,
the rough words,
the pouting lips, sadness of sisters
(to go, to leave this place
where nobody is understood)
.
You can’t praise home in poems,
neither write songs for it,
only in silence you can think of its
wondrous existence, and never run
away from it…
.
Elvi Sinervo, poezie finlandeza
- translated by me -
