Whatever is gone has spread roots here, in the same position,

sad, silent like the big house vase that was sold once during

            the difficult days

and in the corner of the room where the big vase was placed,

the void remains in the exact shape of the vase, thickened,

immovable, shining in the reflection of the sun sometimes

           when the window shutters are opened

and inside the same vase, that has changed its substance with

an equal amount of substance from the brilliance of emptiness,

the same gap remains on the wall it only sounds a little more

           painful to the ears.

Behind the vase you discern the colour of the wall

darker, stronger and more dreamy as if the shadow

of the vase has remained engraved in a sarcophagus

and sometimes during the night, in a soundless moment

or even during the day amid the talk,

you hear inside you a sharp sound, bitter and undulating

as if an invisible finger struck

that absent, sensitive, crystal vessel.