The house feels so strange though we’ve hardly been from it,
much stranger than distant hotels or some palace.
Lacklustre linoleum ignores our footstep,
a stack of old newspapers lies on the table.
The soap is dried out, full of cracks and won’t answer
to hands over-cautious except with repugnance.
The staircases, rooms have completely forgotten
our everyday life that once more takes possession
of chairs and settees. And then ever more strongly
we visitors ruin the quiet life of objects:
the clock, which had found its own time, has to hurry
on forwards, once more does the water so patient
start flowing through pipes lately glutted with silence.
We turn on our own television, start watching,
and try to convince ourselves that we’re back home now.