Inherited Decay

The last time I went to the village,

to say farewell to those I knew,

and from my father’s worn inheritance

to sell what little there was to do—

Our small ancestral house,

a barn now fallen and bare,

a lowly yard enclosure too,

built once with sweat and care.

I walked down into the yard

as if my throat had closed tight—

it gripped me deep within,

like drowning in heavy night.

Bushes and thorns filled the yard,

they had overtaken the place.

Once it echoed with children’s voices

and a parent’s loving embrace.

Before I left for foreign lands,

still just a little boy,

I planted a walnut tree there

in that stubborn soil with joy.

Each morning I would water it,

so quickly it would grow.

I would never let it wither—

its fruits would surely show.

I opened a small path

leading toward the tree,

I lay down beneath its branches,

and they wrapped themselves around me.

Sleep took me for a moment

in the depth of silent air,

and I dreamed I was a child again

in our wounded yard back there.

“Why did you leave me?” said the tree,

“you’ve been gone so many years.

Others shake my branches now,

and break my limbs with no care.

What did you find in foreign lands

that seemed so bright and fair?

Look around you now,” it said,

“this fate was born of carelessness there.”

A walnut struck my forehead—

I woke up suddenly.

I searched around for someone—

but there was no one to be seen.

As for inside our house,

there is nothing I can say—

the place where I was born

I could not enter that day.

Perhaps it is for the better

that I never went inside—

I will remember it as I left it

before I said goodbye.

And so I took my leave

for the final time that day,

of the inheritance I was given—

now fallen into decay.