Of three or four in a room
there is always one who stands at the window.
He must see the evil among the thorns
and the fires on the hill.
And how people who went out of their houses whole
are given back in the evening like small change.
Of three or four in a room
there is always one who stands at the window,
his dark hair above his thoughts.
Behind him, words.
And in front of him voices wandering without a knapsack,
hearts without provisions, prophecies without water,
large stones that have been returned there
and stay sealed, like letters that have no
address and no one to receive them.