In a remote suburb, a solitary house … 

People walk to this house as if to their grave,
And wash their hands with soap – when they return,
And blink away a facile tear
From weary eyes - and breathe out heavy sighs ...
But the clock ticks, one springtime is superseded
By another …  


And there are no remaining witnesses to the events,
And no one to weep with, no one to remember with.
And slowly the shades withdraw from us,
Shades we no longer call back,
Whose return would be too terrible for us … 

And waking one morning we realize that we have forgotten
Even the path to that solitary house …