My Room

The hanging curtain soars with the spring breeze: having whirled through the air of the room it slowly settles down. It pauses for a moment, lifts the folds of its skirt once more and twirls again, again through the air of the room. The stark-naked window shines in the arms of morning: as if I were in the arms of morning, in a borderless world, behind the lace curtain ...