The house I live in is not mine.
Seems to be built of mists. Can you comprehend
how one finds one’s way from one room to the next?
Here they speak to me as to a child
though my hands look as if they’re ninety.
And constantly new faces around me.
One of them beautiful a strong longing
as if it was created just for me.
I asked an assistant nurse
what the beautiful woman’s name was.
Lene, professor, she said with a grin.
And maintained she was my wife.
What a nasty joke!
But I am suddenly resolute.
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