Curtains

The curtains blow
their pattern is encrypted
by the fresh winds
Like in a sick dream
my thoughts follow their movements...
as I search for a way to go back,
climbing through windows
while my mind is left
on the window sills...
My thoughts wander down
a black beach..
Time's reversed, I think,
the waves are moving
from the shore...
-like a leaf that does not let go
through a whole year
hanging on...
to the same tired branch
The starving, the sighs, the soothing pain...
behind the curtains
they blow slowly...
and encrypted pattern
this sick dream
this life.

1997 © Ingvild Gregersen

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