Four photo’s gone from the light they were taken in,
the short parade that hardly forms your life, lying on the table now,
two of them made of you as a mobilized soldier,
a face with a long nose and frightened eyes,
(this is just before you met my grandmother in Rotterdam)
none of your wedding in 1919,
one of you with a basket of bread,
and one of which no one knows is it really you.
All of them fading now,
and these lines will only be read
by those who never knew you nor heard you
while I remember best your trembling voice
singing in the old people’s home
where we never took pictures.
The song was about a lord being your shepherd
and of lushly meadows where you never wanted to be. Grass is for cows.
Your face serious and beautiful paper white and pink
will live on sepia forever in a closed photo-album.
I have no pictures of you and me together
though I knew you for 14 years.
You left no inheritance, they say.
You even had to sell your wedding ring for food.
I do feel you are in my blood and more so in my face.
I’ve got your nose and I do like to sing when you are in my mood.
I did it again: I used the word “were” instead of “where”. Grrr