The old ladies look out at the window, their majestic shelter, as true royals they glance over their garden, the border fence…
The old Ladies
The old ladies look out at the window,
Their majestic shelter, as true royals
They glance over their garden, the border fence,
Which is only a symbol, made for them,
The old ladies.
The old ladies have long understood:
They gaze at the sky, all the stars,
They fathom the deep moon, the silent one,
They count the birds on the blackbird bush,
They know them all, the old ladies.
The old ladies only seem to rest at the window,
The seat of their bustling world,
They look attentively at the long street,
They greet (sometimes), but much more
They think, ponder, about past, about present,
About tomorrow, the old ladies.
The gray wanderer crossing the road,
He, the unworthy one, the rushed,
He catches sight of the old ladies
Only out of the corner of his eye.
He has no time, for that‘s the way of these days.
But they have them all, the old ladies.
He does not understand them, their silence.
He does not realise that he‘s crossing their realm,
Unbidden – But they know it, the old ladies.
He, the passer-by, will fade away – they will remain
The old ladies, at the window.
The whole world was created in truth
For the old ladies at the window.
* * *