I knocked on the door of
times past, no one answered.
I knocked a second time and then
another and another.
The house of times past is halfway
covered with vines
the other half is covered with ashes.
The house where no one dies and I
am knocking and calling.
Just for the pain of calling and
not being heard.
Just only to keep knocking. The echo
my anxiety of opening these frozen
Night and day mingle together in
in the knocking and knocking.
Times past certainly do not exist.
And the empty building has been condemned.