She was the first who showed me the moon
and the first snow on the spruces,
and the first rain.
Back then, I was as little as a tiny seashell,
and mother's black skirt rustling sounded like the Black Sea.
The oil in the lamp is burning out.
A mosquito laments around my ear.
Maybe it is you, mother, in the sky,
is it you, this trickle of stars?
Or the white sail on the lake?
Or a wave against the sloping shore?
Perhaps your hands have sprinkled
my manuscript with stardust?"
The clouds, hollows, acorns and knots
have lighted up with great glare ---
as if the whole world was a silver spruce,
a silver bittern singing songs.
The leafs begin to rustle,
the birds start singing,
My mother used to buy such candles,
They are dozing. A nice intention is dwelling in them.
Just arrange them and light them,
and see what goes out of them:
a precious, rounded face gleam in the candles.
Mother raises a finger. The wind will die away.
Kiss mother's hands and hair
then sprinkle the snow on the alley ways,
so it twinkles and crunches.
Then all the twinkling lights..."