The fathers have built big houses, with two floors
and a large attic. They had wished to gather all the children
of the world, to host the citizens of Africa and New Zealand.
They wished to build new houses and garages, to plant
flowers and tomatoes in the black garden soil,
and to turn the balconies into lamps.
However, the houses now stand as weaponless soldiers, the roofs
are covered with graffiti, remnants of feasts left on the tables,
while the walls are decorated by paintings of bad impressionists.
The houses are just rows of bricks delivered from the suburbs,
like projections of the ancient proletariat who, having abandoned the
villages,
spent their lives in remote factories,
like drivers who, sleepily, put out the fires
in the houses of the military retirees.
EN 
MK