The hall's dark, but my way's habitual.
Twice insurgent shouting bangs a door shut;
so peacefully, with courtesy, stand back.
Teen girls descend, all smell of soap (and I
of garlic), go out.
                                                              Extinguishing lights,
I climb the dark passage and lock my door.
I drink water. I seat myself. I write.

Thessaloniki, 1994