Window

The curtain – torn – hangs from the neck of a nail the stairs – behind the door – are the dams against my passing. Will your fingertip press the doorbell again? with a red rose in your hand? I am under siege under the siege of a frozen time. in a crypt. The stairs behind the door: they are the dams against my passing. My legs are numb my hands are numb. I have become a dark skeleton, with skin over it. The faded curtain hanging from the neck of a nail. I am under siege under the siege of a frozen time in a crypt. Do I hear your voice again? Your voice: warm with chatter about everything: about the plate, the color of slippers, God, cinnamon, tea, world peace, about me?... Does the clear wave of your voice wash from my ear the dust of bitter silence? Behind my window, on the worn-out wheelchair my eyes stare through the frosted glass at the night street and at a hand that I see has risen toward the doorbell with a red rose in the corner of my crypt: never wilting...