Rusty tea kettle,
tablecloth with birthmarks,
cockroach with tiny suitcases.
A dog that kicks in his sleep
and eats the falling snowflakes.
(His tail is tied in a knot.)
In the rocking chair there’s a heart
that no longer exists.
The old woman sprinkles hemlock in the cauldron
on the stove and whistles forbidden song.
Well, this is it my child,
all fairy-tales begin like this.
The sunset falls in the window.
Time squeaks and hides
inside itself.