My Room Whispers to Me

My room whispers to me

And tells me of itself,

A story never straight, never set

Yet its walls are level as a shelf:

.

One day it is a poet's room

Inlaid with tears of ink

And clothes and blankets tossed aside

Soaked in scented herbs

And tired pride

.

One day it's the owner's room,

Desk, chair, floor stacked high

With books that speak of business

Learning all the knowledge-wealth

To buy freedom from dizziness

.

Another day, another tale:

This time, there lives a fighter

Who fights to win a belt

And dreams of winning glory

Before his fears are felt

.

Not long, it's a father's room

Where patiently he waits

To hold his future child,

Warmhearted that his life has yielded

Something undefiled

.

Now it is a shaman's

Who communicates with gods,

Helping people's minds relax

By telling them what pacifies

And not the ugly facts

.

But now the room is mine

And I lie in it alone

Yet I fear its wispy tongue:

It waits for me to leave this cell

So it can sing my song

.

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