In the upper shelves of the almirah
there was, as ever, patience.
And silence too.
Below, so much lay scattered.
The things in search of which I had arrived
in this city,
I could find no trace of.
I went on putting –
on fly leaves of books, inside shirt pockets,
in the stitch of sweaters –
my name, the room number, the names of hostels,
addresses of the houses I had rented,
hoping for a form to emerge,
like the termite sensing the presence of wood,
or like the corpse getting identified by a washerman’s marker.
When you open this almirah,
the door, somewhat wobbly, lurches to a side.
There is so much that is no longer in memory.
It is no longer here either.
Whatever remains
looks like some dead man’s last will.
I understand that the things you gaze long and attentively at begin
to return your gaze.
When you have held the scissors for a long time,
you do begin to feel the urge to run them through something.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem