Still Life, Very Still
(Natyrë e qetë, shumë e qetë)

Shrivelled fruit in the wicker basket and crumpled napkins in the corners of the sofa, hymns they weave for want of a hand: the wind no longer opens the book to the translated page.

The souls of the furniture hide in wooden kernels, even in immured apparitions, and the silence remains unconsumed.

The cold, three-legged stand.