A soft rapping on the door
turns to a frantic knock;
a pounding in your head
and a vibration in the wood.
Now memories are stuffed
like ill-fitting clothing
into cramped drawers,
spilling at the edges,
painting a perfect picture
of domestic living.
A soft breeze in your hair
turns to a violent wind,
a wind that fractures temples
and crumbles ancient cities.
You sip water from a
fragile, pellucid glass
filled with tiny ice cubes
and watch the city turn to dust,
spotting an arm here or a leg there
of the heavy marble statues
protruding from the sand.
All this is observed
in silence,
a deep void filling the air
like the bottom of a clear lake.
And the pillars fall
with no witness
to the sound
since there is none.
And you smile because
your careful taciturnity proves
to be a blessing
and finally, mercifully,
the knocking stops.
