Classic Poem

One night
my father saw a saint in his dream
He saw a tall saint
who spoke to him
with eyes burning like two embers
in a voice full of authority
very sure of being obeyed

In the morning
my father went out
to knock on village doors
one after another
to tell his dream
while he rolled a cigarette
of cheap tobacco
with the face of somebody
returned from war
or a soldier staring in amazement
at the stump of his amputated thigh

He had forgotten to shave for many days
and was jobless for as long as history
In his hands that knew
only how the hammer weeps
as it drives his days with cuneiform
tears into the heart of wood,
in his hands of skin and bone
he stubbornly clutched the rosary
of the future with orphan beads
and saw winter
after winter
send the carriage of hope
rolling off into a snowstorm
to disappear, trailed by a star
and a pack of emaciated wolves

He kept knocking on the doors
one after another
the sack of burlap on his back
filling up as evening advanced
with loaves of bread, the village's
black rice, tea, and salt
whenever he told his dream
which he did more than fifty times
till I knew it by heart

He had taken me along
to carry the sack when he got tired.