Years of watching and seeing nothing,
I finally move the window away.
Or it’s actually the frame
that I've removed. The window remains—
in the dark hole, the world remains.
But after all I’ve left there.
I’ve walked away from it, far away,
but still, bearing the frame on my back,
and looking through, I see myself
among the migrating birds over the horizon
repeatedly flying from one place to another,
saddled with the past.