These are her things

The animals of her loneliness

stretch out to her from the corners.

And form the wall

there is a stove,

a washing-machine,

shelves to put her ration,

-a little exile-.

There is a bed at the end of the room,

a table,

and small candles.

Everything doesn't leave its place;

Everything has its own presence;

Everything has bread and water from time,

and sleep and cover from her her shadow.

Everything has desire and weep with her,

has the taste of a body that is accustomed to its solitude

that contemplates itself,

Everything is a mirror

that has her face,

and has the friendliness and shyness of her limps.

Maybe she had passed by a place like this in her childhood,

passed by a light,

and pots from which shadow dropped on a bright tablecloth,

Maybe she had summoned a ghost with the dangling necklaces and candlesticks

to return to some escaping gardens,

to springs running on faces,

and shaking under the clear water,

smiling at heart.

It was not me

to whom she was speaking

and looking at his mask!

她推开城市，

关闭身后的门，

拉上窗帘，

白昼里点燃她的灯笼。

这是她的东西，

她孤独的爬虫，

从角落里和墙缝间

爬向她。

一个火炉，
一台洗衣机，

与放置她不多物品的架子，

一次放逐。

房的末端孤立着一床，

一桌，

和细小的蜡烛。

一切皆原封不动，

一切皆有自己的形态，

一切皆在时间里找到面包与水，

被她的阴影覆盖着休憩。

一切皆有期望，与她一起落泪，

一切皆习惯自己的孤独，

孤独沉思自己身体的味道，

一切皆是镜子，

镜子映照她的脸庞，

与她的友好和羞涩。

也许她曾路过与童年相似的一个地方，

路过光，

阴影落在明亮桌布的罐子旁；

也许她曾用摇曳项链与烛台召唤

幽灵返回逃跑花园，

返回溅到脸颊的泉水里；

幽灵在清澈的水下摇晃，

向心灵微笑。

她不是和我

说话，