By feeling

the corridor is behind me now it is always cold there, always dark let's not go there, let's stay here no one is coming I wait for no one, no one waits for me my eyes keep looking down at my feet it isn't shame, maybe it is sorrow maybe a little reproach, but why while snow crystals dance I drift away without meaning to two teardrops in the mist on the glass the signature of a six-year-old girl who lived in big wooden houses who was afraid of dark corridors it is behind me now the corridor, behind me now let's not go back there

five stones on top of the wardrobe one of them me, a little sharp, a little pale a few dark, dry paintings hanging a sunset grinning between them warms me inside, and with it a candle smells of childhood left over from the fireplace on cold winter nights a little yellow, the flames red pieces of wood, one dies one is born in the blink of an eye I stroke the rug, barefoot pyjamas bought at the market velvet fabric, deep emerald five stand alone on top of the wardrobe five stones

it's half past midnight and you're on my mind while the streets of milan glowed like a christmas tree I lit a candle in the kitchen it's half past midnight and you're on my mind while the streets of istanbul sank into the dark you lit a light in your room every midnight I came out to you, barefoot I looked at the last cigarette in the pack and at two lonely children because every door I opened was snow-white at first then blood dripped on the floor because every door I opened the corner of a sunny day a cold breeze in the shade

speckled marks have come out on my neck flickering aches in my chest I pace the corridor and the corridor caves in all at once grains beneath my feet I am tossed through the air asleep again in my mother's womb