Hotel Walburg

I cross the Delft's Grand Place Desolate as Dutch Sunday's are.
A shiny metallic mirror witch moves to unknown destinations
hangs in a frozen blue sky
leaves me wondering
where the bird starts its journey
and
where it will end its travel.

For the last time,
I left my little home in the corner of the garden,
for the last time.
The doors thwack still peals
in my ears,
in my hart,
for the last time.

-Before leaving-
After what they have seen and experienced the walls radiate an
incomprehensible dispassionate emptiness -
they ignore my inner sadness, my bottomless pain -
They just seem  to wait for the next occupant, with his daily concerns.
Only the kitchen bears my name, but for how long?


-After leaving-
Life continues its daily routine
mine [life] also
in this new place
between new old walls
equally indifferent.
I wish this was my hotel,
for a few nights,
before going back to my old trusty walls.


There is no exhaust cloud,
I lost the silver object.
There is no past
-only future
des-ti-nations.