The room of life, a strange and thoughtful place,
Cobwebs streaking from corner to corner,
Dim windowlight appearing on my face
In my own fortress, I'm a foreigner
On one wall, hanging paintings reminding
Of memories, stitched in wood and pastel
Diamond-shaped holes in another, hiding
Another wall, behind which hatreds dwell.
There ought to be four walls within a room
Within mine, there are hundreds, each distinct
each coated with a brush of love, of gloom
each separately in its own way linked
Oh which, oh which, oh which wall shall I show?
That is a choice which only I can know