I'm knocking on the door #51395
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I'm knocking at the door. A poem by Jón úr Vör.
This is the 3rd edition.
A good copy. Signed "Best thanks for the book".
I'm knocking on the door.
I am a bill collector.
This morning I rang the doorbell.
one of the most elegant houses in town.
It is coated on the outside with opal.
and the steps are made of crushed silver rock.
A young girl comes to the door,
she is wearing a sleeveless morning dress.
It's a maid.
"Is the master here?" I ask.
and celebrate the account.
-No, he just got out.
The voice is prideless and simple.
-And the lady? I ask.
with a sigh after a hesitant silence.
-Neither,
and smiles.
I thank you,
take off your hat
and bow down.
-Hello, I whisper.
-Hello.
As soon as I close the gate
I look back quickly,
she is still standing in the doorway,
smiles at me with blue eyes
and red lips.
So I go from house to house,
from door to door,
all day long from morning to evening,
everywhere unwelcome,
unwelcome guest
and the reception accordingly.
Like me, a poor collector,
not to blame for the crisis,
unemployment
and all the problems
the debtors?
And one thing is certain:
that few are willing to pay,
most of them penniless,
at least at first glance.
Come tomorrow, my dear,
they say,
later,
in the middle of the week,
at the end of the month,
sometime,
never.
And finally the day is over
and my roar stopped,
rest,
a silent, heavy night.
But my blood does not stop,
it still beats in time with the whirlwind of the day
and the street vendor,
agitated and unstoppable.
And she,
this beautiful maid,
who found our kinship
in the chaos,
submission,
she smiles in my mind,
laughs in the silence.
Tomorrow?
Who knows what will happen tomorrow?
Maybe something strange,
something beautiful.
Who knows.
This is the 3rd edition.
A good copy. Signed "Best thanks for the book".
I'm knocking on the door.
I am a bill collector.
This morning I rang the doorbell.
one of the most elegant houses in town.
It is coated on the outside with opal.
and the steps are made of crushed silver rock.
A young girl comes to the door,
she is wearing a sleeveless morning dress.
It's a maid.
"Is the master here?" I ask.
and celebrate the account.
-No, he just got out.
The voice is prideless and simple.
-And the lady? I ask.
with a sigh after a hesitant silence.
-Neither,
and smiles.
I thank you,
take off your hat
and bow down.
-Hello, I whisper.
-Hello.
As soon as I close the gate
I look back quickly,
she is still standing in the doorway,
smiles at me with blue eyes
and red lips.
So I go from house to house,
from door to door,
all day long from morning to evening,
everywhere unwelcome,
unwelcome guest
and the reception accordingly.
Like me, a poor collector,
not to blame for the crisis,
unemployment
and all the problems
the debtors?
And one thing is certain:
that few are willing to pay,
most of them penniless,
at least at first glance.
Come tomorrow, my dear,
they say,
later,
in the middle of the week,
at the end of the month,
sometime,
never.
And finally the day is over
and my roar stopped,
rest,
a silent, heavy night.
But my blood does not stop,
it still beats in time with the whirlwind of the day
and the street vendor,
agitated and unstoppable.
And she,
this beautiful maid,
who found our kinship
in the chaos,
submission,
she smiles in my mind,
laughs in the silence.
Tomorrow?
Who knows what will happen tomorrow?
Maybe something strange,
something beautiful.
Who knows.