Getting along with my house

The city has its own riddle for the lost.
When the sun’s departed, all others stroll along the street,
Leaving their own houses behind. Then I always start climbing up,
Secretly entering those empty rooms

No need to tell them apart. They’re always unfamiliar,
For they do not belong to me. Defined by the touches of someone else,
They have walls soft and transparent like leaf veins
Sofas carry me like floes on a lake

Some of the toilet bowls sparkle like cheeks of young girls
Some curtains are forever half-open like murmuring lips
There’re always pictures of the deceased, revealing the somniloquy of Time
Hair strands of lovers on pillows -- I wouldn’t bat an eyelid

Tea leaves in the cupboard curl like soft larvae
Nail scraps in the carpet all the time
As if being planted there
Ringing phone -- not to be overstepped
I tap on keyboards with the sound of a double bass

Caressing the dust on every lampshade
I give them names
Talk to them about the city’s weather
All these shall be restored to zero when I leave
The simple lines of the light in the house
Bring me closer to enlightenment

Music I play on the recorder is nothing more than silence
Chocolate I’ve eaten is so easy to overlook
Open others’ letters before folding them back
Take away bills of someone else to be torn

Everything I’ve touched becomes still
Everything I’ve passed through tends towards purity
I lay my hand into the unnamed anxiety of various things
They permeate me, putting me at rest

Only in this way the night ceases to be still
When I look out the window from a room of others, watching the night
Flowing like a river, chanting
I’d slowly descend to the ground, and walk my way back

Only these nighttime wanderings and climbing help me get along with my own house.
It stands in the grayish dawn, coldly waiting for me to come back to sleep
We never talk, our eyes brightly silent. And the night sharpens.