We were seven and went to sleep, every night,
always at the same time.
Father, mother, three sons and two daughters.
Then, from open doors of the rooms, beginning
by the eldest to the youngest and one at a time,
the full darkness always heard a familiar ballad
being sung – your blessing, dad; your blessing, mom.
So, permeating the corridors came in one by one:
Then, aloud and in bed, they joined in prayers,
what worked as singular lullaby to put us asleep.
At dawn, father awakened us from the backyard
with his axe, by cracking firewood for the stove.
He was a scholar, but fond of the old manners.
Indeed grave and serious a man, never failed
when we asked for a good companion.
He and mother formed so peculiar a couple,
father the youngest of a thirteen-brother clan
and mother the eldest of ten; a contrast that,
it seems, joined them forever.
Her jewels, so she called them, a delicate watch
and a wedding ring were quite enough to hold
blessed and blissful a union.
We lived by the simplest lifestyle, no refrigerator,
gas stove, or electric shower.
Mother ironed clothes by an old charcoal fired iron,
cooked tasty lunches in smoky a kitchen and made
the finest suits in a hand-crank sewing machine.
You must believe that there are saints.
By that time, two of them lived with us.
Published in Creative Talents Unleashed, Featured Writer, March 18, 2017.
Published in Spirit Fire Review, October 2017 issue.