Sometimes, when I am empty,
it happens that a long forgotten voice
from the crowd in the street
arises again and finds me there.

Then it's as if I've lost my way
and must return to the house
in its original state,
before I cleared it out.

As if from the accounts, the garbage
something has yet to be retrieved,
something unsettled, unmanaged,
that I left behind so I could leave.

Sometimes, when I am empty,
while ink is filling my eyes and voice
by surprise it brushes my ear lightly,
so incomplete. But to return

just isn't me.

Translated by Willem Groenewegen