Walking down stairs in the dark of night,
silence weighs heavy in the air.
Every step sounds an alarm
and threatens my intention,
though I move with the delicacy of a cat.
No shadows in mind or meaning.
Into the beckoning darkness,
a faint promise made to
each unmarked step.
Still a panoply of dreams sets
the boundaries of a world not defined
by walls or by reaching.
Still the building itself complains.
It calls out from corners and spaces
I have never visited-
even in the daylight.
It knows of ghosts and memories
older than its planks and pilings.
I am a trespasser in this house,
where the bone and sinew are tuned
as tight as a guitar.
What can I know of its mystery
and the stories of its sighing,
revealed only in flashes of black?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem