Closing the door seals the room’s fate
There’ll come a time – sure –
When the doors won’t flap
Like restless birds’ wings
And window curtains won’t stir
Like hairy moss in crystal rills.
I’ve stopped singing – long ago
Myself up to music given – carefree,
I am drunk
Falling out of skin
I close the door of existence
There is nothing new or nothing old
Because I am.
Munirka Village, N.D.
Sunday, January 11, 2009