In the cellar of the countryside house,
a drunkard wanted to die there,
because he felt so at home,
lying next to the wine barrel
(as grandma tells the story).

The cellar is neatly arranged:
at the bottom,
there are large shelves; demijohns
on the first level; pots and jars
on the second level. Tomato sauce bottles
and brandy on the top shelf,
alongside slender bottles from other eras.

On the left side of the staircase,
the pumpkins doze,
their circumference swallowing
the belly of a camel.

The last time
I visited the cellar,
I spotted an agriculture manual.
I cut out the pictures of trees
and would have set them up on the street,
in place of advertisements.