After a quick tracking shot along the dark corridor
there's a panning shot of the room.
A jazz tune assails the quietness
and the lamp sheds a yellow print
on the cloths and papers scattered over the floor.
Your thoughts suddenly make a retrospective start,
then they return to the untidy place
–there's always a return–
and they retry their worthless struggle
bending their backs as waves would do.
There's no one in this room
except the invisible hero,
absurd and stubborn, for not in vain
wev'e already made use of a simile that approaches
the magnificent tedium of the sea on the shores.
The furniture is scant and the cold winter wind
pulls its dirty fingers through the inky gap
of the inky-black window.
Unsteady steps sound in the stairs
with the coughs of a drunkard. And your thoughts bend
their piercing stem of wishes
towards the past
trying to put in order the remainders of life,
the chaotic, indigestible waste
of the world elapsed.
There's no one in this room.
If only...
And the camera shuts it's eyelid of shadows.
