Whenever
I was scorched by the burning sun of life,
Whenever
I grew tired of my own lies and the lies of others,
Fighting with everyone, losing against myself,
I used to go into that room.
That one room with its light and dark brown colours,
That room, kind beyond all bounds,
Which used to tuck me up in its soft sleep
As a mother
Might hide a child in the folds of her dress,
Scolding with love:
'Now what a way to go on!
Wandering about in the midday sun!'
I remember that room,
That heavy, solid wooden door,
Hard to pull open
As if a stern father
In his rugged breast
Had hidden an ocean of tenderness.
That chair
With its twin sister,
Both of them
Were my friends.
That insolent, loud-mouthed mirror,
Which had a kind heart.
That clumsy wardrobe
Standing in the corner
Like an old nurse
Would reprove the mirror.
The flower vase
Quite tiny,
Very naughty;
Laughing at them both.
The window
Or a knowing smile.
And the creeper, bending over the casement,
Some green whisper.
Books
In the alcoves or on the shelf
Sat like some serious school-ma'am;
But they waited for me
To ask them something.
Pillows,
Companions of slumber;
Remedy for tiredness
That soft-hearted bolster
In whose lap I would rest my head
And gaze at the ceiling.
In the rafters of the roof
No one knows how many tales were begun.
Over the little table
On the facing wall
Hanging pictures
Used to look at me with affection and trust.
They smiled,
Never dreaming that
One day I would depart,
Never to return

The house where I live now
Is very, very fine.
But often I sit here in silence and remember
How that room would talk to me.