Jan Oskar
Hansen
A Village
in Iberia
When I first came here
there were many empty villages;
they are now slowly being repopulated, mostly by
foreigners.
I drove to the village
where I was born;
hadn’t been there for forty years.
The lane was muddy and the houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned a long time ago;
what was I thinking of coming here?
A tree had grown right through our cottage—
the roof was smashed and the walls were tumbling
down.
Puny human dwellings—the
tree seemed to say,
here today and gone in less than Ten decades.
What a nostalgic fool I am—this
idea of returning,
rebuilding the old house and living here in happy
retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard—
houses were tombstones of a past
that had nothing to offer but poverty;
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette—
the aroma of wafted through the drab silence.
From behind a broken wall a dog came.
It was young and looked eerily like Stella,
the dog I loved all those years ago...
Don’t tell me she has waited for five dog generations,
to return from the wasteland of eternity just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said, and stroked the dog’s
head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else?”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in
like she had done this a thousand time before;
I drove off and didn’t look back once—
the only memory I needed of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
—
Unedited version:
When I first came here there were many empty villages
here, they ere now slowly being repopulated, mostly by
foreigners
Jan Oskar Hansen, PT
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and
live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but
poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I
loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else?”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like
she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I needed of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
—
