Reading of silence

It goes like this: I can imagine the streets through which
you stumbled, practice the steps
and identify the smells of space, the clothes
and the home furnishings. I am already in the possession of insomnia,
through the labyrinths I ply.
With the help of imagination, I could reconstruct the events
from my childhood and youth. (The most difficult, surely,
would be the dark period.) Nevertheless, fictions are incomparably more
reliable than facts. I would learn the language,
practice the accent. I would find out many things about wars,
religion, particularly about books, and about love
and tigers – just something. Somehow I would cope
even with over-curious people, but I would always
choose only one man to talk to.
While reading me, people would become aware
that it is the story of their lives. Space and time,
the moods of mine – wouldn’t be of great importance.
I would, of course, also appropriate your verses;
others would say it is in the manner
of your games with the doubles. All in all,
I would honourably simulate the accomplice.