There are days when you would like to make yourself a place
on the windowsill, strolling there secretly,
eyes closed, as if on a hypnotic bridge,
as if on the edge of a deep silence.
(From below, only emptiness looks up at you, its height.)

As if you were someone else,
legs sunk to the knee
in a deep silence,
someone who strolled there secretly.

For one moment only, because the air
behind the bars of the window pushes you back,
as if in a high-security wings.

And the room absorbs you into itself.