Elegy
(Elegji)

Memory will weave that black headscarf of yours, grandmother, as the cold north wind crochets endless skeins of yarn over the freezing village.

You wake early with a coffee pot in your hand while, in the ashes, coals still glowing plead in the hearth for evening,

With those little steps which childhood left incised in my eyes, with wrinkles which each night deepened.

Oh, autumn has fled down the hurtling torrent, and your rheumatism is always the herald of winter