Across The Echoing Room

In a corridor lit only by bright cries
A closed door rattles against its hinges
The hinges clap,clap,clap for silence of speeches
That whine and die before they have won.
What is beyond the door?
Whatever is locked is not for us to know
For all it can offer is deceit
And deceit keeps sleep awake with its tireless agitations.

All that is know of that undisturbed beyond
Is what can be heard, in a sign language of un-names.
The walls are not hollow, they are thick
But they ache with the hollowest of pain
The vilest insects would not dare to rot their pain
Instead they will creep into the outside of winter.

A girl laughs with laughter as insane as joy
Joy yes joy! Where else could such laughter come from?
A joy that pours into the keyhole, down the black veins.
The keyhole wants to run, run away
Before it starts to cry with jealousy,
O go and clean your face;
Return to seeing without being watched!

O how she is screaming
That girl's voice brings shivers to the spine
Of the rug whose red nose can solely smell
The ecstasy of filth turned sacred by humanity.
Through the dry weeping a bed is heard rattling
And the velvet sheets now thrown to the floor
They declare through wrinkled reflections:
"Some are dead drunk
Some are dying for a drop."

Those who live in a dangerous present
Attract the envies veiled in cries for justice.
The accusers are the envious
The accused are the envied
But are they not part of the same system?
Do they not weep for the same sorrows?
Why must they do it on different sides?

Another girl walks loudly across the abused tiles
And enters as well the echoing room.
Now the screams of foreign joy
Are twofold!
The pitter patter of feet can be heard
Jumping around on every inch of the inchless room.
And the screams carry on!

Right across this room there is another room
Whose door has nothing to hide,
It is as silent as the summer waves.
Is there anyone there at all?
No one cares to ask
And that is how the man in there wants it:
He lies on a wasted bed,
That incites hornless bulls,
All he has is a book, his dearest and only posession
And on it he rests some paper on which he writes,
His words are his screams of joy.