The irreversible, unchangeable history of our lives.
A full plate of nuts, figs, plums, all sorts of dried fruits.
Squeezed juices dropping, peeled skins all over my books.
We really don’t have a house.
I am a guest here, invited for a coffee.
They want me to wander off.
I live in an empty house,
accompanied by the leaves and the autumn.
I am a bit of a witch, still not enough.
The air here is stuffy, in this empty house.
I come and go as the wind blows.
One would say I couldn’t care less,
but I do care about the coffee.
My dreams are made of water.
Water in my eyes, water in my mouth.
There is water in all corners of the house.
I start a fire on the stairs and see it all so clearly.
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