No sudden leavetaking, by your grace,
This time, old ghost, so long abroad. Friend of this house,
Warm all your evanescence by this fire
That burns the both of us for ending nights.
All through my germinating years, you, unfatigued,
Obsessed the attic’s dust, the cellar’s dark,
Moaning belowstairs, creaking the doors.
The days marched with your certainties.
And now the nights begin. Your absence, deedlessness,
Has bred long silence through the rooms. We haunt ourselves.
A shutter, pounding in the mind,
Old spiderwebs that drift behind the eyes,
A moaning in the heart that warns insistently.
Old ghost, friend of this house, remain!
What is there now to prod us toward
The past, our ruinous nostalgias?
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