I watch my grandfather, // sitting in his rocking chair,
In the hunter's cottage, // the fire dances, cooking hot tea,
He fumbles with the wooden ball // in his hand,
Turning it round // and round. I sit on the mat.
My parents are not here.
Only motionless picture books, // on this lonely night.

The leaves rustle outside, // a cat meows from the tree,
Grandfather says he hears footsteps, // many people.
Watching him fumble with the wooden ball,
His white hair dripping with sweat,
His eyes seem to grow, // bulging out,
His mouth mumbling,
"They, they are coming."

I tell grandfather it's time to sleep.
He strokes my head. Tell me,
Someone will come, someone will leave,
Warm palms, please let // me stay with you.

Then, slowly approaching, // I fell asleep.
They have come.
Grandfather is gone. The cottage remains.