I stand at the gate wondering who lives in this gingerbread cottage.
It may not be so attractive to the rest of the world,
but my eyes appreciate its qualities.
A delicacy of taste, a fine history, and an interior that looks comfortable, rare, and full of interest.
I hesitate to enter this gate ‑ I want to find out who does live here
but I am fearful of being chased away.
I stand here for a long time, unable to decide what to do.
I know I am foolish and confused but I can neither leave nor enter.
Another day ‑ I stand again at the gate and wonder what to do.
I do know the owner now; perhaps not so well,
but there are other homes at which I would not hesitate to knock.
Yet here I am so full of doubt ‑
this house is so enchanting it casts a spell on me.
There probably would be a welcome even if my arrival was somewhat inconvenient, but my fears run wild ‑
if this is the wrong time, maybe I could never come here again.
I could not bear that.
Another day I stand now at the gate of a friend ‑ I can say that now
but it is still hard to enter this territory, it feels so special.
I cannot risk making a mistake, so I have learned to wait at the gate
and there is much pleasure here to view.
Despite our seperateness, and my desire to enter, I can feel your closeness here.
Still, I hesitate again ‑ I cannot read minds, and I fear an empty house
…or, worse, a look of recognition and dismay.
I stand at the gate again; perhaps this should be the last time?
I wonder what has always made me hesitate so?
Perhaps this was once my home in an another life, perhaps that is why I am so overwhelmed by desire for this house?
(Part of me wants to leave, another part to march forward, to insist upon entry, or to break in if no one answers and despoil the house.)
I sigh; I have learned to wait until you sense my presence,
and come to the gate to talk.