Who does not live behind a barricade in this age?
Who lives in an open window,
in the opening of a flower?
Who diffuses himself into a scent,
and stays inside it as a petal?
Who lives in a real knock on a wooden door?
Who opens the door,
to embrace unfamiliar things?
Who is the one
whose heart does not live
in the circular metallic movement
of the key inside the lock,
in the circle of a life revolving between walls?