Coming out from the wall’s core,
where there is no window,
you can hear knotted strings
playing a soft cantilena,
lulling to sleep all past phantoms
coming alive in the shade.
The poet’s eyes are freezing them,
carving everything in stone.
My heart has found a revolving door
towards the old attic
where the moon keeps turning around
like an old gramophone.
Always the same tune.