Out of three or four in a room one
is always standing at the window forced
to see injustice amongst the thorns and fires on the hill.
And people who left whole are brought home
in the evening like small change.
Out of three or four in a room one
is always standing at the window,
hair dark above his thoughts.
Behind him words and in front of him
voices wondering without luggage, hearts
without provision, prophecies without water,
and big stones put there and staying closed like letters
with no addresses and no one to receive them.