Waiting for a Painter

March 14, 2012 § Leave a comment

The room, deprived of its comforts-
one or two chatty furniture left behind,
their tongues tied tight in plastic foil
(like the membrane keeps quiet the newborn lambs).

In this silent cave, the echo of our thoughts.
The memories, nail holes and pencil marks.
After a move, the new tenant will delete them,
for a renovation we’ll edit this novel ourselves.

This is how we first saw this room
we younger, younger the room.
This is how the room looks after us
we older, older the room.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Waiting for a Painter at I was not born in English.

meta

%d bloggers like this: