Our Old House

Everything was old in our house

My father was old

And I, young and ambitious

Listening to his music from trumpets and fiddlers

Listening how the chestnuts cracked in the fireplace.

Everything was old in our house

The windows were like paintings of our small vicinity

The windows, where my father used to spent his evenings

Waving at the neighbors, smiling at the young ladies

He was a man of good looks, my father

And an interesting man

But lonely and weak

And his loneliness crammed the house.

He had an axe in the yard

And every morning we could hear the woods cracking, under his anger

As his activity was being paid all attention and interest

And everything seemed so small, compared to his greatness.