The room is ample, and smells

like old paper and wood. Nothing

lies between the walls. But everything

moves between the walls. Dust always swirls,

restless, now calm, now excited, now playfully fast.


It is likely to rest on memories, swallows passing by.

Sometimes, it is a tough job to disentangle the two.


But much more passes by

than swallows and dust.

This is a perennial



This wooden box of Pandora,

this little greenhouse of Eden.


The walls have no window. Whenever

there is one, it is always closed. Whenever

there is one, it serves to show some contrast.

The rule goes: no window, no prison.


Hum, hum, hum. The walls are humming.

Here, there, here, there, the room is

rocking. Hum, hum, old swallows

are lulling, lulling, lulling,

lulling  me home.


Home out of the mirror.