When morning came
I rose and made tea
and sent off my brother.
In the quiet house
I sat down to wait.
The day knocked on my door
with its sack of wares. The evening
looked in my window
with its inconsolable gray eyes
On the table the lamp was lit.
My brother came home then,
white dust on his shoes
and a tiny blue fower in his cap.
weary
as if he'd danced a long time
or met a girl in the felds.
When I touched his sleeve
my fingers brought away
a fragrance of mint and grass.
Now my brother wants sleep
and moons foolishly at my bed.
What I want
is to wash his feet
and send him off again, tomorrow,
with a stone in each shoe
and one for each hand
and no bread in his pocket.
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