There is a meditational silence
just before dawn
that draws me in, beckoning
reflections of what lies beyond
the dark windowpanes.
And sometimes, what lies within them.
And I stare at your captured image,
fuzzy, sleeping warm;
warm within that cold glass.
Smooth, you breathe
in,
out. Smooth like the glass.
I fall into that same rhythm: in,
out;
contemplating with each repetition
on the strange thought of what it would be like
right now
without the window:
the room would become cold and even though
I could make due, it is so much more
pleasant with the window in its place.
In its place with me.
I am the room.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem