Sweet poem “When we are eighty-five …”
SHE IS:
When I’m eighty-five
When I start to lose slippers,
Soften bread slices in broth
Knit unnecessarily long scarves,
Walk holding on to walls and cabinets
And look at the sky for a long, long time,
When everything is feminine
What is given to me now
Will be wasted and it will not matter –
Sleep, wake up, or not wake up.
From what I’ve seen in my lifetime
I will carefully extract your image,
And slightly noticeable lips smile.
IS HE:
When I’m eighty-five
I’ll look for your slippers around the house,
Grumble that it’s hard for me to bend
Wear some ridiculous scarves
Of those that you knitted for me.
And in the morning, waking up before dawn,
I listen to your breath
Suddenly I smile and hug quietly.
When I’m eighty-five
I will blow the dust off you
Correct your gray hairs
And, holding hands, walk around the square.
And we’re not afraid to die
When we’re eighty-five…