Vladimir Holan was right:
the kitchen is the best place to be
with its coffee aroma, brewing tea,
prattle of the family and purr

of the icebox working its alchemy.
Stored away in its clammy shadows
are shining apples from Adam’s garden,
cherries from Argentina.

A place of healing and mending
and clemency when we confess,
where the only empress is the empress
of wonders that never cease.

At the table of drawn-out pleasures,
wars were fought, you read my thoughts,
black headlines were passed between us.                            
It is here that daybreak makes its first appearance
                                 

and tenebrous evening through steamed windows.
Here that we have been talkative,
silent, amorous; pale as consommé,
rosy as ripe tomatoes.