We tore the house apart,
sold the rosewood beams
and a host of great dreams
dreamt by its occupants
the nameless ones
dead for three centuries.
We were too poor
to maintain our heritage
too poor to seal cracks
or the walls,
to replace the torn rafters
and to lay new tiles
on the broken parquet floor.
We sold the debris
to a local trader
who complained that
the house had been for him
a bad bargain.
We settled ourselves in flats
situated in small towns
safe from snakes and rodents
we did not dare even
to buy ourselves a potted plant
but off and on in drowsy moments
remembered the house
and its corridors and
the pond that had taught us
to swim, a pond with
a wrinkled moss green skin.
When life tires us out,
we hunger for the house lost,
and its dark interiors
forever fragrant with incense.
