For my grandfather Emil Srb
A house in ruins. Through the cracked walls
spread gluttonous ferns,
and the parasitic bands of lichen.
On the ground sprouts delphinium,
a nettle forest. The poisoned well
a water trough for rats.
The frail apple tree, split by lightning,
forgets whether it once bloomed.
On clear days, singing goldfinches
fall into the ruins. On sunlit bright days
a clock’s arc lives
on the facade, capricious and joyful
the shadow of time dances,
and recites solemnly to the skies:
Sine sole nihil sum.
For everything is a mask.