In the garden of my father and mother,
colors and shapes grew.
The scents of mint and marjoram
rose gently above the damp soil.
Hands touched the earth,
guided by the phases of the moon.
On root days, flower days, and harvest days,
life followed a book written long ago,
a book of fulfilled prophecies.
In the garden of my childhood,
there was a spreading linden tree.
Its fragrant flowers and leaves
brushed against my head.
Bees gathered nectar,
never hurting me,
until a summer storm came
and lightning split the tree,
leaving a space
slowly accepting loss.
In the home of that old world,
the night was full of stars,
and winged friends
watched over the house.
The Milky Way shone.
The stars trembled quietly.
From the south, the wind came
over hills, fields, and forests,
bringing the scent of pine.
From the north,
mist rose from the meadows.
There I picked marsh marigolds.
There I walked barefoot
with my Easter basket, singing,
wrapped in the wind.
In the night mist,
as I walked home with my father
after piano lessons in town,
my feet touched
the warm pulse of the earth.
I held a head of grain
in the summer heat.
I knew oats from rye.
I felt the sap of freshly cut grass
on my hands.
I gently touched the animals
that gave everything they had,
and I respected
their sacrifice.
Oh, how much tenderness is needed
to care for the world around us.
The bread my grandmother baked
was marked with the sign of the cross.
Every word she spoke, every smile,
was like gravity
that did not weigh me down.
I looked upon the wonders
of life and death.
I listened to the funeral songs
as my grandparents were carried
from this world.
But I will never be alone.
Behind me stand twelve generations,
an unbroken chain of lives
reaching through time and space.
That is why
I can share with you
the piece of the world
that still lives
inside me.