Something is knocking the window
- it's just a branch missing its tree.
Somewhere a light flashes
- it's just a car missing its map reader.
Something lurks under the bed, waiting
- it's just fear missing someone who'd grasp it.
The fear is overestimated
- it's nothing else than us.
Without us
the fear would lose its file
in the employment agency of emotions.
The fear is not frightening.
It itself fears that no one fears.
It's under the bed because it's frightened.
Do we need to give it wings or courage?
Let's leave it under the bed to collect dust;
may it be our revenge for everything.
It's our own fault, though.
