There is a room inside my chest
That smells of old receipts and rain-
The kind of room booked by mystery
Full of someone's some ordinary grief.
I live here for ages, all all alone
In a corridor mixed with memories-
A parking lot in the window, where
Pigeons practice playful acrobatics.
A valid emptiness adores me, always
Like a sober mom, kissing her child-
I hardly allow anyone to enter here
As it's abundant with longing for her.
Sometimes, I invite her remembrance
To celebrate this holy nothingness-
I worship those like a devoted priest
Knowing that, serving exceeds enjoying.
After an erotic meditation, suddenly-
I feel, amid magnanimous nothingness
There's something, powerless yet powerful
That neither lives, nor loves, nor lets me die.
