From where do you come
This winter’s evening?
And why are you here
Wandering across my bathroom floor?
There is no food here
On my second floor,
Only bare tiles,
Not even books to inspire you,
Or make you bold.
But there you are
Only asking to be crushed, dismembered,
Beneath the ruthlessness of my step.
But I stop.
For a moment I stop.
Observe the delicacy of your meanderings.
Is it so cold outside?
Is there nothing out there for you to eat?
Or do you search
As some of us humans do
For that pot of gold, that something
It can only be of another world
Far, far, from what we know, or dare?