December winters shake the roof.
In the already darkened night, my weary grandfather
grabs his cold porridge
and gazes into the bowl, into the echoes of his life.
And with the child he shares and mourns
his free mountains which once stood.
The child always saw where the light stood
among the rough memories, which still trembled like the roof.
And so he understood the mourning
which overtook my grandfather
and malnourished his life
like the cold, aging porridge.
To them, every meal was porridge.
But to him every memory was one on which to stand,
except that which chained them was their very existence, their life.
On top of every mountain was a roof.
Inside of every house was the child and my grandfather,
looking at the broken ladder to the heavens, mourning.
On that night they could not prevent their gluttonous mourning
from consuming the flat, broken pieces of porridge
which were held tightly by the forgetful waters of my grandfather
and formed by the new memories on which the child stood.
But the shaking continued on the roof,
which protected both old and new life.
The child dreamed of a renewed life
for my grandfather, one where heaven’s light dispelled the mourning,
where the trembling would stop on the roof,
where there would be no more broken porridge,
where endlessly tall would their mountains stand.
And on this night, his devotion wandered to my grandfather.
Then he sat smiling, my grandfather.
For now the moonlight caressed his frail life
and shone on the peaks of the mountains on which he stood
and produced the soft sobbing, blanketed the sweet mourning,
illuminated the path through the empty bowl of porridge
and ceasing the storm which shook the roof.
By the piety of the child, no more was the roof.
No more was the porridge.
From that moment until the crack of dawn, only sorrow would mourn.