I passed a house where I once lived:
A man and a woman are still together in the whispers.
Many years have passed with the silent buzz
of staircase bulbs -- on, off, on.

The keyholes are like small delicate wounds
through which all the blood has oozed out
and inside people are pale as death.

I want to stand once more as in my
first love, leaning on the doorpost
embracing you all night through, standing.
When we left at early dusk the house
started to crumble and collapse
and since then the town
and since then the whole world.

I want once more to have this longing
until dark red burn marks show in the skin.

I want once more to be written
in the book of life, to be written
anew every day
until the writing hand hurts.

Yehuda Amichai