In my house, the sunlight inhabits all the rooms,
which makes me think that I am someone important.
At the window, I fall into the slumber
of the nonbeing of everything I see.

I have only the sunlight on my face and arms. I am sad,
like a man who never leaves his house,
yet knows we live in a world of stones and trees
and has no use for the hastened moves
we call friendship.

by Constantin Abaluta, from It Might Take Me Years, An Anthology of Poetry

Everybody's looking for something,
Probably a person or maybe just some feeling.
Everyone yearns, aspires, and hopes,
Holding on to their fictitious ropes.

We try to find it somewhere,
Look here, look there, look almost everywhere.
But maybe we've been actually missing,
Can't seem to find a thing.

For the longest time, it's been nothing,
And this is not changing,
'Cause we have to admit, that yes,
We're looking for it at the wrong places.