stones are just like people,
he liked to say, each has a secret life –
hard like the ground of remembrance...
how walls would turn out strong and smooth –
worthy of all the prizes which we
would mostly squander...
my father was a mighty maker,
far mightier than those compared to me
by ignorant critics –
heavier than his stones,
maybe heavier than his trailer, filled
with stones that he gathered near Biržai...
he always carried two in the pockets of his pants –
the size of fists, blackened and callous,
you could say your prayers if he pulled them out...
my father, who is not, is still my cornerstone
in this harsh stone world –
having built so much in his life,
having demolished so much.
© translated by Rimas Uzgiris