Still Life

bottle a voice: Who removed the label? Please put it back immediately!
The loaves of bread are silent, but, I know, they would like to say:
Here it has become tight, there is nobody that says:
Eat, this is my body…
The onion pulls together its own halves, and wishes to leave also.
For where? For the cellar, perhaps? Closer to the earth, where is all the power of this world.
I cover my eyes with one hand and remain silent.
On the table quickly all is like before: just a composition.

At my window the slain dog scratches, and whines:
Down there is cold and I am alone, so alone.
Above the dog I discover the bluish shadow of Thucydides.
His whisper can be heard clearly:
“The powerful do what they can, and the weak put up with what they have to…”

I lit a candle in the room where daylight enters anyway,
a frigid day of a winter without snow, foggy, desolate.
Oh, how beautiful it is, I think, when winters are snowy,
because in the spring, with the thaw, it seems to me:
All hardened hearts of the world mellow.
The candle’s flame