The caricatures of our soul, Trapped within white walls, Sinking into the slumber of morning. Trees, of which we are the mothers, Or perhaps wild natureβs offspring. When we place our hands on the table, Awaiting food, We see our grown children through the window. The tip of the pen leaves lines on the paper, Trapped within white walls, Sinking into the slumber of morning. Deaf concrete houses Disrupt the echo of stillness Oh, the emptiness. Bressonβs films, Breaking into us, Like the diary of a country priest, Written on black pages In white correction fluid.