Whether I listen to the clatter of a typewriter or the crackle of sparks
in the fireplace, my voice remains feeble because, in a way, I’m still a child,
for there are things in old books I haven’t learnt and likely never will,
convinced that what’s left is to talk to myself—and even that out of habit
rather than necessity—while sitting in a dark room with the curtains drawn,
staring at a volume of Cavafy and a cup of cold redbush tea, wondering
why I am sad when children were supposed to be carefree, innocent
creatures of forgive and forget.