Читать книгу Tremolo - Helmut Lauschke - Страница 10

You are the mirror for your mother, in which she recognises her fast aging. You are also the nail in the wall with the photograph of her youth and beauty.

The portrait’s beauty on the photo will remain far beyond mother’s death. Regardless which field you are ploughing, her warnings go the plough ahead.

The sun burns onto the path and the faces, the years wrinkle deeper the forehead’s skin. The heavy weight of the filled buckets presses the carrying heads with the thin bodies down to the soles.

The sky goes into the deep and endless blue. It is the water that has to be carried on the heads.