So easily they define themselves by their words;
I saw a piano in a neat living-room and stacks of warm laundry;
Cold sunlight through a shiny window and the sound of silence,
When only the white curtains move.
My hand lifted to wave goodbye to the faceless man and our faceless children;
So many times I have seen their backs through the closing door.
I like standing like this, here.
There is a secret desk in a secret room upstairs,
Where the books on the shelves are alphabetised and dust-free,
And the pen does not want to be picked up.
This is a perfect moment.