Behind these doors
time is benumbed
in vacant shine around painted
monotonous landscape of
a distant hamlet.
The condemned houses
with mirror like roof tops
forgotten from life
of long gone past,
Who was collecting all these souvenirs
dressed in dusty solitude, and now
has abandoned expensive figurines
behind colourless glass – to waiting.
Carpet soiled with human stains,
walls with open wounds
can not hide
merciless anger of male fists,
a strength of insanity.
If in this house had lived
husband and wife
where are they gone
If in these empty rooms
love was whispering,
the truth was aflame
why is it dead
If toys were once scattered here,
joyful children played, and
laughter rang in every corner
why are they missing –
Who knows why
behind these doors
in this home
nobody is laughing nor crying
Nothing is left here
except a trail
of human desolation
(C)Copyright Dinka Bednjacic, 1996.
Dinka Bednjacic 