Witness Of The Past

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:

God blesses.

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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s