I knocked on the door of times past, no one answered.
 I knocked a second time and then another and another.
 No answer.
 The house of times past is halfway covered with vines
 the other half is covered with ashes.

 The house where no one dies and I am knocking and calling.
 Just for the pain of calling and not being heard.
 Just only to keep knocking. The echo brings back
 my anxiety of opening these frozen steps.
 Night and day mingle together in the waiting
 in the knocking and knocking.

 Times past certainly do not exist.
 And the empty building has been condemned.