Winter Words Op. 52: IV. The Little Old Table

Creak, creak, little wood thing, little wood thing

Creak, creak, when I touch you with elbow or knee

That is the way you speak, speak

The way you speak of one who gave you to me

You, you, little table, little table

She brought, brought, brought me with her own hand

And she looked at me with a thought, looked

At me with a thought that I did not understand

Whoever owns it unknown and hears it

Will never know what a history lies

Upon this creak, creak, creak, creak, creak

From long ago