Here the childhood's house
i am pushing the grey door,
i am coming into what was the kitchen
now on dark and empty.
It looks like in the silence
the air tenderly shivers
as if a butterfly or a dwarfish bat
was flying from the ceiling.
Smell of garlic and wilt rose.
Here there were a table and three chairs
and there the kitchen sink, the cupboard and the cook.
A vaguely figure and as transparent
is sitting motionless, then he turns to me,
figure of a man which is raising slowly a hand
and which lips are moving :
My father, I know it, who is trying to tell me
what he has never told me,
in vain tries hardly to speak
but I can't even hear a rustle.
Finally, as smoke that wind torments,
the figure shakes a little and fades.
Later, I saw him again at twilight, on the hill.
He was walking.
He was carying a child on his shoulders.