who sits for hours in his chair 
and takes the children on his knee 

in the unweaving of his mind 
he tells again the same old moments, 
again the same old pieces of which his life was built. 

And we have learned to close our ears and 
never listen. 

You told us that before a hundred times 
your mind says to his words. 

Yes, the song goes round a hundred times but 
no one really hears and 
It's all I have to tell. 

Soon so soon the song is buried and 
the old voice with the rattle and the tremor 
will be still 
And the pleadings of old age, 
the same old moments fall like snowflakes on the sea 
The fragile pieces of a life. 
For we have learned to close our ears and bear 
the droning, while we wash the dishes.