Free Verse
Haibun
Confession
If time will exist without
faces never entering this empty house, no one will know if
anyone lives in it. Are these signs being impressed by a hand
anything but a dream? With whose sight does that someone
recognize the papers scattered about? Whose breath flows
around these areas not knowing if they belong to anyone or to
the memory that also does not remember whose is? Everything
around seems familiar, from time to time, and then again a
question arises – who is that one watching the things dead as
in a memory which does not move from the blank point? The body
is motionless under the blanket. Only the hand is restless.
Yet it cannot tell who plays this game. If that is someone,
who it is, if it is something, what it is moving the pencil in
the hand, if it is anyone’s hand?
If time will exist
without faces never entering
this empty house,
no one will know
whether anyone lives in it.
Are these signs
impressed by hand
anything but a dream?
Whose sight recognizes
the papers scattered about?
Whose breath flows around
these spaces not knowing
wheatear they belong to anyone?
