All night, I lie in bed,
Staring at the shadows // on the snow-white wall.

The round fan on the black suitcase,
where darkness blooms, plays.
The light casts the shadow // of a black head.
Turning. Always turning.
Looking toward my sleeping feet, // gradually approaching,
Yet never arriving.
Let us believe this is real, // for now.
Though truth eludes us // in just a breath.
In my childhood,
I often saw these shadows.
They stood around my bed, // side by side.
Their faces, unclear, // hidden from sight.
They spoke to me, // nothing I can hear,
Only whispering and beckoning,
Asking me to join, to leave...

I remember my mother mentioning how —
I was often sick, feverish and trembling,
On those uneasy nights, // when silence speaks volumes,
She too could see those // shadows swaying outside the window,
Those shadows that watched me.
They licked the dust in the crevices,
Clearly amidst the sounds // of falling leaves —
and withering flowers, // a chorus of decay.

The small stream // in front of our door flowed,
The sound of water concealing their footsteps,
Muffling their approach.
I lay in bed, // feeling partially hot and cold,
Trapped between worlds, // pains and plains.
I couldn't move, watching those shadows,
Those shadows that grew taller, // surrounded.

They stood by my bed, // patient and waiting.
They had towering shoulders, // reaching toward the ceiling,
Scraping against the plaster.
Not wearing the long // robes I had imagined,
Naked in their darkness.
Their bodies emaciated, // legs as thin as a child's,
Fragile yet unyielding.

Child, I am unable // to see their faces,
Though I strained my eyes.
In a daze, I // murmured that I was afraid,
words caught in my throat.
I saw my mother's terrified face,
pale as moonlight.
I knew she could see them too, // the shadows.
She could see them when // no one else would believe.
My grandmother is wielding a knife,
slashing at the empty air // in the living room,
Fighting unseen enemies,
The shadows didn't turn their heads.
The shadows just stood by my bed, // unwavering in purpose.
They formed a circle around me, // a tight circle.
The television played children's series,
But the music // in their mouths gradually elongated,
What I heard, distorted and twisted.

Like the shadows on the wall,
The shadows growing heads // where none should be.
Turning, revolving,
Walking to my bed with determined steps.
It straddled my body, // crouching, heavy as stone.
Let us for now // forget this is real,
Though memory persists.

I can see them, now, their faces,
I can see their // faces emerging from darkness.
They grip the railings, // bring their heads close to my pillow,
Breathing coldness. It is warm, // I bat.
I look at their faces, // they truly have faces,
They truly have faces // that shift and change.
A kind of sorrowful black // and cruel blue,
Colors that speak of ancient pains.

I think know who they are,
I don't know if ghosts exist, // yet they remain,
I look at the shadows' faces, // which reflect like mirrors,
and see only my reflection, // staring back at me.