The oak in front is dripping its leaves on the window.
Slowly.

What am I supposed to do, Dad?
I, too, search for water, to nourish my roots
which I imagined so vividly -
the two braids that fell to the ground
twenty years ago;
today
is a day when the mind doesn’t respond,
but I take care of Mom
just as you would have wanted.

Today
she had a bitter mouth.
I baked an apple pie
and I let my eyes dry
in the candlelight.
The flour was a bit rancid, imported,
because, you know, others have to eat too.
The cold apples had the marks of a snake’s teeth
and no worms have grown inside anymore.
We sleep in a foreign air full of freedom,
different from the one
when the trees smelled even after
the rains scraped them of green.

What am I supposed to do, Dad?
Mom always tells me to avoid Timpuri Noi station
because another young girl killed herself there,
but I don’t listen to her.
She almost regrets giving birth to me
in this world
so much she cares for me.
The warmth in the house
no longer comes from the movement of bodies,
there's a methane smell
/silence/
You can die here, and only the sunrise
will light a candle.

What can I say, Dad?
You’re lucky.
By tomorrow, at the latest,
you will feel the world lighter too
when the snails will gnaw
the last leaves.