Wojciech F. Zlomek - Constant Times of Day - Evening II - In November

A CLOSED ROOM

                    (in memory of my father)

Semi-darkness Silence smelled of mothballs
On the anniversary of his important battle
in the Woods of the Holy Cross
my father and his friends slipped down
from the frames of a pale photograph
and sat around the little table by which
my father when he still was
used to write letters to them
Gently without disturbing even the dust
they sat on the chairs and were silent
with a silence of fir trees
roadside crosses
and shells from the deepest sees of the world

On days like that my father put on his
dress uniform Actually it was
an old coat smelling of mystery
I know that because eavesdropping by
the door I heard metallic
spasms of the medals hugging the
silhouette of the uniform

They sat reminiscing probably
perhaps smoking cheap tobacco stuffy
smell the smell of memory seeped out
through the cracks in the door and terribly loud
they were silent Then after a while
my father used to plead say something
even the quietest thing I beg you say something
I can't stand any more that ringing
silence

It was silent

I wanted to help them all but
I didn't have the courage on such a day
But on other common days
when there was nobody home
but us I used to go into the empty
room and with a clothes-brush
pretending that I don't know his secret
I brushed the old coat and as if
in passing I dusted the scars
on the medals

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