'There Is A House' by Monika Ewa Piotros

There is a house, a three-floor building

With garden wide and green,

With dark, long curtains and old stickers

On the windows’ shiny screen.

The metal gate with iron tulips

With broken necks and twisted wrists

The helpless guards and silent hosts

Of the garden and the house of mist.

In the backyard empty red swing

Crying with each blow the wind will bring

Standing near dead flowers

They listen to what the swing sings.

The song of lust and lost desire

With each note the swing goes higher

Trying to escape.



There is a house, and a family of three,

You, my mother, me,

A five-year old, counting clouds and riding bike

Wondering how a cloud tastes like.

A woman, standing tall in front of every storm

Being strong, counting stars and singing tulips’ songs.

And you, the father, middle-aged man

With hands dirty and eyes full of shame

You, who made me learn why the windows stay shut

And the curtains never met a single blow of wind.

You, who turned around

And not stopping the rage coming from within,

Taught me why your hands were crimson-stained

And why the place I cherished should be never named

A home.

There is a house,

A distant building,

With garden full of fear,

With silent guards

And hostile hosts,

With broken window

And one weeping tree.

The house of secrets, loss and tears,

With never blooming daffodils.

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