The Old Revolutionary’s Room by Nijole Miliauskaite

o the poverty of holidays, the sadness of holidays
the shining
windows
in the emptying street, wet
flags, torn and rent
by the wind, rustling leaves
beneath our feet
she opens the door: welcome
it just happens to be
her birthday
she leads us down a long corridor
into distant perspectives
into the past – glimmering
clearly
a straight
old woman (sweater
with darned elbows)
a piano
takes up half the room
photographs – father and mother, old
Vilnius intellectuals
piles of manuscripts
a bicycle
leans against a wall: yes, she still
rides, along the Neris
in the summer
cherished
beloved names on her lips
lives – complicated,
entangled, tragic
(I see: she sits
alone, in an empty room, the wind
blows out the candle in her hand)