One more chair

The doors of this house aren’t always open

But today, they are

The windows rattle in the incessant wind

Its whistle flies from room to room

Come in, the stone threshold is warming up

The wooden stove is lit

And the kitchen on the right is already bustling.

The fire is crackling

The hour is early but the wine is ready

The precious cinnamon has been dropped in,

The oranges pierced by hundreds of cloves

The smell is sweet, here it is king

But it doesn’t reign alone.

You should follow the invited breeze, she likes it here,

And she will bring you to the queen.

You can hear the plates and the glasses first

Behind the next door ajar,

The table is being set by the old lady,

Her wrinkled hands are strong and used to those repetitive and welcoming chores,

She cannot wait for.

It used to be twelve of everything,

But the draft knocks on her arms…

One more chair, at the end of the table.

The floor starts pounding,

Little heavy feet coming,

They know all that has been prepared

Is for one person only.

The guest has come

Waited for, yearned for

His presence is felt, he is a bit cold and lost

But happy to be here,

Tonight everyone will leave.

Taking with them the bitterness of the cold,

Memories of the hole he left

But the sweetness of hope,

Of another year, another gathering.