THE DRESS

From the chest smelling of aroma and must
Grandma took a dress she wore when young
It is so thin and it’s as light as dust,
As if out of nothing it had sprung.

So sadly rustles the dress of silk white,
Its ruffles unweave like misty lace,
And delicate figures, in a shower of light,
Like in old times, are waltzing with grace.

She sees again her very first ball,
She recognizes her maiden dress,
Touching the cold silk she trembles all,
Filled with sadness by its soft caress.

More and more, she bends her tired brow,
So bent is grandma in her old shawl…
The beautiful dancer, where is she now
To glide again in her dress at the ball ?

Her feet, delicate and small,
Her clear eyes, and her smile bright,
How come they are dead, all,
In her bent body, where is her light?

And then I heard the dead silk answering,
Or maybe it was grandma in her old shawl;
No, they aren’t dead, they keep on dancing,
Always in other dresses, at the first ball.

(written by the Romanian poet Magda Isanos)