Black walls, under a black ceiling,
Not like the four walls of a room
But like a maze
Just a little too tall for one to see what's on the other side.
The windows covered with opaque paper,
Black too, but now full of holes;
And in the morning these tiny holes light up
With a light that seems to be the only thing that belongs
To a world where time still moves.

Black Box

Black walls, under a black ceiling,
Not like the four walls of a room
But like a maze
Just a little too tall for one to see what's on the other side.
The windows covered with opaque paper,
Black too, but now full of holes;
And in the morning these tiny holes light up
With a light that seems to be the only thing that belongs
To a world where time still moves.