He doesn't know where
this door leads
nor why the plants around him
are yellowed and drooping.
What confuses him most
are the roses
thirsty, silent, nonchalant
intimately clutching their colours.
The horses on the wall
are tired and grey
almost blackened by the clouds.
Why is he here now?
Doesn't he have, other than here, friendships
dawn, fantasies, and a coffee pot.
And isn't the wolf closer to his nature?
Hasn't he himself said:
the horizon a needle
a thicket of foxthorns then!
One moment, he doesn't know how, out there
his face resembles him again.
The air is a magician and the shadows are tokens.
The trees are busy
with their fruit, and night is a flash.