Wandering shadows drift upon my street,
They stop outside my door begin to speak:
Halum hecat.
They peer through glass as though they see my face,
They wave at me as if to call my name,
And with dry voices whisper through the space:
Nehim ruhat.
Perhaps I should be gripped by dreadful fear,
Hide in my bed beneath the blankets tight,
Scream out and wake, relieved to find it clear—
It was a dream, a fragment of the night.
But I feel no fear. Instead, I’m curious,
And like a dream, I slowly start to drift
Toward those shadows, whispering to us:
Sahat lehud.
A shiver runs through every vein and bone,
I press my palm against the icy pane,
And from the shadows, rising like a moan:
Khalim tahud.
I see a thousand shadows writhe in night,
They signal me, they press against the glass,
And from their whispers, delicate yet slight,
A single voice like balm begins to pass:
Tahil latham.
Perhaps a dying soul’s faint shadow calls,
Or one unborn, whose heart has yet to beat.
And something in me rises, breaking walls—
I answer in their tongue, obscure, discreet:
Tahat naham.
Then I dissolve into the misted pane,
I pass beyond into the frozen dark.
And I become a shadow lost, profane,
To roam the streets forever, without spark.
And I will softly cry:
Naum tahit.
And I will cry aloud:
Halum hecat.
