I have always suspected that the model autobiographer
would be a eulogist dwelling upon the preexisting innocence
and the final struggle to maintain its appearance, admitting that,
despite advising others to live with their eyes wide open,
he hardly ever dared to raise his gaze above the shadows
on the pavement, yet never asking forgiveness
for stepping on them.
The shadows outside my bedroom wear names other than mine,
but at least we still share the sentiment of having one.
Also, we all measure time, although I’m not particularly fond
of manipulating it, even if only twice a year.
The shadows outside my bedroom are keen on collecting proverbs,
as they look good pinned in a display box on the wall.
Well, as long as guests don’t mind the smell of naphthalene
and glossy reddish-brown stains on the pinning stage.
The shadows outside my bedroom preach kinship with the sun
yet practice fluttering around the glowing, coiled filament of tungsten
I come from. Sometimes I wonder if, behind closed curtains,
they simply cease to exist.
hidden pilcrow 