The sailboats are rocking
around my bedroom,
I try to count them,
and every time I fail,
'cause some of them
are hiding
in the milky fog,
visible ones are waiting
for my journey,
standing tall on a piece of rice paper,
a year ago
I hanged them up, one by one,
expecting nothing too much
from their soft stillness, -
maybe, a joyful miracle,
perhaps, a warm and happy wander.

I was sleeping in my bed,
two of them
heavily fell down to the floor,
waking up my consciousness:
It's bad luck,
when pictures are jumping off
of their hooks,
the tension in the air was so thick,
I could slice it
with a kitchen knife.

That night,
the sailboats turned themselves
to messengers,
telegramming me the loss
of a loved one,
and my mind was ready
to accept it.