The Forgotten

The wind moves the curtain,

yet the wind itself remains unseen.

Who is this wind, really?

I see the curtain—

sometimes it resists, refuses to move.

But then, other times, it gives in and flies…

And still, no one knows whether that’s good or bad.

They say: don't say such things.

Don't ask questions with no final answer.

Rise up. Move the curtain yourself!

But the only thing I remember

from my last uprising

is that I tore the curtain...

Before you ask how—

and I refuse to answer—

let me tell you:

I don't like waiting.

Not the kind where I wait,

and not the kind where I put someone else on hold.

So the truth?

I tore it out of sheer carelessness,

while absent-mindedly opening the window

for a sip of breath.

And now—my wish?

I wish to hang a smart curtain.

One that doesn’t dance to the wind,

but to the piano melody

played by the neighbor.

A melody shaped by fingers I still cannot see.

But in the end,

I see myself

in the mirror—

eyes closed—

moving with subtle gestures,

hand in hand with the mirror