Raw, with a backrest,
without upholstery,
it doesn’t catch the eye
until you discover
its quiet advantages.
Stable, smelling of the forest,
it accepts your sighs,
lets you freeze in stillness,
look for shelter
from reality
that rushes like a train.
Sometimes it creaks,
but grows brittle with time,
drilled by woodworms,
not protected,
and yet it serves.
As years pass
it gets drier,
splinters get into the skin,
the forest smell fades,
disappears
in everyday life.
In the end
thrown out or burned,
whatever is left
loses meaning.
The last memory:
hard discomfort,
and the eyes look
for soft support,
new arms.
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 8:05 AM UTC
Raw, with a backrest,
without upholstery,
it doesn’t catch the eye
until you discover
its quiet advantages.
Stable, smelling of the forest,
it accepts your sighs,
lets you freeze in stillness,
look for shelter
from reality
that rushes like a train.
Sometimes it creaks,
but grows brittle with time,
drilled by woodworms,
not protected,
and yet it serves.
As years pass
it gets drier,
splinters get into the skin,
the forest smell fades,
disappears
in everyday life.
In the end
thrown out or burned,
whatever is left
loses meaning.
The last memory:
hard discomfort,
and the eyes look
for soft support,
new arms.
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