I open fearfully the door
to draw a border with the sun rays
upon the carpet.
I feel like shouting,
but the echo of the unfurnished room
is faster than me.
The sweat on the door-knob is not mine
and the rush on my neck
does not belong to this world.
I emerge in several
painted memories,
my soul is the womb’s palimpsest
of a far-off mother.
Hence the thought of return
and the quiet squeaking of the hinges.
I would expand the space with a step
to thicken the grains of dust
and multiply the hairs that fall
down, always white
because of the light.
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski