On my elderly aunt

(Për hallën plakë)

She is elderly, wears thick eyeglasses
Knows nothing of telescopes,
Sees clearly into hearts, memories, beyond time.
She is elderly, terse in her speech,
With old sayings,
Laconic gestures.
She is elderly and finds in her grandchildren
That which old age has deprived her of.
She is elderly, her hair has gone grey,
She does not like us mentioning her hair,
Like a poet editing out the clichés.
She is elderly and certainly knows nothing
About Archimedes' principle, about short circuits,
About the number B from elementary school,
About multiplication tables and DNA,
But she does know about bread, growing up and about children.
She is not the least interested in the secret of the metaphor
But does understand the chirping of the wagtails perfectly.
She is elderly, chats quietly
With her brother (my father) who has been dead for thirty years,
Asks him questions, listens to him and replies.
This is more important than Homer's imagination
Which sent Ulysses on his voyage to the other world
And brought him back to life.
My aunt tells her secrets to the dead
Who visit her, drink coffee with her,
Tell her things.
It does not worry her at all
That they are preparing for her return visit.

My aunt is elderly, she very rarely says anything,
But knows the names of all her newly born grandchildren,
Dreams of them getting married,
In a quarter, a half or three centuries' time.
She still keeps her wedding veil
With which to cover her face
The day we pay homage
To her absence so packed with life