I hear the quick hard answers to the old man

who sits for hours in his chair

and takes the children on his knee

in the unweaving of his mind

he tells again the same old moments,

again the same old pieces of which his life was built.

And we have learned to close our ears and

never listen.

You told us that before a hundred times

your mind says to his words.

Yes, the song goes round a hundred times but

no one really hears and

It’s all I have to tell.

Soon so soon the song is buried and

the old voice with the rattle and the tremor

will be still

And the pleadings of old age,

the same old moments fall like snowflakes on the sea

The fragile pieces of a life.

For we have learned to close our ears and bear

the droning, while we wash the dishes.