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Ndrek Gjini
I have two cemeteries
within my house.
One on the ground floor,
in a very small room,
under the stairs,
where my shoes,
sole wounded from their run
through many rough roads
rest in peace.
The other one is in the attic
where dozens of my notebooks,
badly scratched
with my handwritings,
are buried.
I know nothing about where
this mysterious power comes from,
My soul, in search of skylights,
Climbed flights of stairs,
Hit its head on attic beams,
Fell over cast-off chairs.
It went back down to rooms
Of routine, fearful days,
Persistent anxious nights,
And weary, wearing ways—
Went further—to a basement,
To be desperate and low,
Stumbled there on blueprints
For skylights, what do you know?
Sweetling, try not to forget.
Lest in trying, you remember;
She who blows too hard may get
Flame from the deceptive ember.
Let the attic of your mind
Keep whatever stores are in it ;
Do not look too much behind,
Lest you tread the present minute.
I shall pluck the moments now —
Only folly weeps to miss one;
Let some later lover's brow
Wrinkle at the thought of this one!
“O Mistress Mary--Mistress Mary--
What have you found in your new old house?
Paperers are waiting you, and carpenters, and gardeners--
And you are up garret, just as still as a mouse!
What makes your eyes so wet and so round?
Mary--Mary! What have you found?”
“Where the sour old wind grieves under the eaves
There’s an old trunk hid--Oh the dust on the lid!
I pulled out from it a gay round box,
And in it were worn-out boots and socks--
Little, soft socks and little, stout boots--
And a child’s crude drawings of flowers and fruits,
And a tiny toy whip, and a ship and a ball--
Oh--they’re just like a little lost boy! That’s all!”
Dust hangs clogged so thick
The air has a dusty taste:
Spider threads cling to my face,
From the broad pine-beams.
There is nothing living here,
The house below might be quite empty,
No sound comes from it.
The old broken trunks and boxes,
Cracked and dusty pictures,
Legless chairs and shattered tables,
Seem to be crying
Softly in the stillness
Because no one has brushed them.
No one has any use for them, now,
Yet I often wonder
If these things are really dead:
I wonder how long it has been
Since this old calendar hung here,
With my birthday date upon it,
Nothing else--not a word of writing--
Not a mark of any hand.
Perhaps it was my father
Who left it thus
For me to see.
Perhaps my mother
Smiled as she saw it;
But in later years did not smile.
If I could tear it down,
From the wall
Somehow
I would be content.
But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it.