A Long Short Story

, by Atanas Dalchev

The windows – closed and dark,
and dark and closed is there the door,
and on the door – the piece of paper with the words:
“The master left for America”.
And I’m myself the master of the house,
left without a resident,
but I have never left for anywhere,
and from nowhere I’ve come back.
I never leave the house
and years are my only visitors,
and many times yellow have the gardens turned
and most likely I’m not anymore the same.
The last book was read so long ago
and I’ve walked all the roads of memories,
and it seems for a hundred years I’ve spoken only with the portraits.
All day and all night long, all day and all night long the clock
swings its metallic sun.
I look at the mirror from time to time,
so I’m not always all alone.
My days slowly climb the walls
and on the ceiling they burn out:
without a single event, without a single romance
and my life is passing, leaving not a trace.
It seems I’ve never been alive
and my existence is just an evil fiction.
If accidentally coming in the house,
one won’t see anybody there,
will find only dusty portraits,
an insidious empty mirror
and the yellow piece of paper on the door:
“The master left for America”.