The Breadbaker - Albinas Zukauskas

The millstones are footworn.
The walk is overgrown with grass.
There is no doorsill.
Aspens grow where the cradle once stood.
A bird warbles for the breadbaker.

The helmet is bullet-holed. Squirrels
Lick dew like cats.
The soldier is not here.
War killed the soldier.
The woods protect the soldier's
Life and courage.

Sprouting thistle
Peers through shattered windows.
The cottage is empty.
Mother used to call:
                  – Go to bed!
Those dear punishing hands.
Where are they? The woods are all around.

The birch switch
Would be sweeter than honey.
There is no one to wield it.
Time doesn't stand still.
The breadbaker is caught
In the smouldering of a long-past day –
Such is the history of war.
The woods rustle, murmur.

---

Albinas Zukauskas (1912 - 1987) Poland
Translated by Jonas Zdanys