The light reigns in right angles. No whirling or dancing
takes place here. Nothing bends without breaking.
Children of wood stand in a straight line, tell one by one
the same story of the man who balanced under the beams of his house.
The man who at one point shut the door because his towers did
not reach the heavens, because his stairs led nowhere.
He hacked away at his dreams, created from the fragments
a city in which he wandered around alone until
he knew all the ways to the city gate. Foot by foot he edges
along the wire of his existence in the direction of the door.
To see the original poem, go to here