Olga Bergholz
I dreamt of the old house...

To My Sister

I dreamt of the old house
where I spent my childhood years,
and the heart, as before, finds
comfort, and love, and warmth.

I dreamt of Christmas, the tree,
and my sister laughing out loud,
from morning, the rosy windows
sparkle tenderly.

And in the evening gifts are given
and the pine needles smell of stories
And golden stars risen
are scattered like cinder above the rooftop.

I know that our old house
is falling into disrepair.
Bare, despondent branches
knock against darkening panes.

And in the room with its old furniture,
a resentful captive, cooped up,
lives our father, lonely and weary –
he feels abandoned by us.

Why, oh why do I dream of the country
where the love’s all consumed, all?
Maria, my friend, my sister,
speak my name, call to me, call… 

Translated by Daniel Weissbort