Grandma

Curtains on the windows of old-fashioned 
boxes of longing great, grandmother, 
and grandpa are already gone. 
I enjoyed both those in the corners, 
old logs are singing a song 
nostalgic and melancholy. 
Not in a hurry before persecuted by 
the person making the inquiry, 
only a coffee pot copper 
the corner of the stove cooks expect. 
Shut up, I think the room 
I feel the longing and regret. 
What can not tell 
these walls, my memories 
pearl necklace is the pain of tears 
swerve. 

Now, it takes another hour, 
father sitting on the rocking chair, 
burn the pipe. 
I still feel the smell of smoke, 
and my ears can hear 
grandmother's spinning wheel thread running. 

For some I can hear the sound of violin 
this time it does not ring anymore. 
Grandma's melodious sound of the guitar. 
I signed over the past 
Now maybe I missed again. 
Grandma's hug was the world's 
the most expensive gold,
 and the contents of the grandfather's head. 
Hand with warm, which was perhaps 
a modicum of domestic mold. 

Call Grandpa violin yet, 
I will go with you as a child 
a warm summer's day on the road. 
Remember grandma to make coffee, 
point is a cabin full of 
cloud off runaway angels. 
I still I walk here on earth, 
I will point to you again. 
Now the wind sing, fall in the corners 
creaks of the house is deserted. 
Before there were all kinds, 
there was peace, and 
it is a war. 
It was my childhood in Lapland, 
and fuming hut.