A rusty-coloured gate, no name,
The passage to the old people's home.

Amidst the stones in the yard
The grass has withered
Under the weight of many canes.

Behind the curtains, on the windowsills
Dentures float
In water glasses here and there,
Like messages in bottles bobbing on the high sea
Never to be read.

The gate to the old people's home,
Bearing two sad numbers
Is always opened in silence
And hesitation
Like the Bible's much-thumbed pages.