I hold the darkness this time

before you so that you too can

touch the walls with bare hands.

I tear the papers into pieces

for the moulding in the starch.
You can see a faint candlelight

in the wind in a distance.

That is the memories. The steps

are closer to the ears now

from seventy-two years down.
Can you remember our guest

in this empty house? He is

the only man here in red dungarees,

you cannot reach his face.

I see the first dog he killed
before he creakedly locked

the gate. The fume from his mouth

clouds the room and it is too

late to ask questions, someone

from behind restores our tongues.