Evening: the lining fabric
Laid on the wooden floor
Mother is sewing the tears of home
The furniture feels disrest in the room

You know the days of tiredness grow old
There is something sad in the sister’s voice
The tree doesn’t bear fruits in the garden
The smoke out of the chimney isn’t upright

Father is wasting time by himself
Lonely like a ceramic coffee mug on the shelf
All the faces are turning towards the last ship