prisoner

I see a household cat in my despairing,
Who makes no noise and knows how to behave.
Her needs are few -- a scratch will start her purring,
A scrap to eat and whispered words: "Be brave!"
My throat escapes her claws' unlooked for pricking,
She never interferes if I have guests.
The minute-hand enchants her with its ticking
And brings her consolation, even rest.
She climbs up on my knee when sensing nightfall,
And childlike, noses round and falls asleep
As on my book I see the patterned light fall,
Those meaningless cast-iron shadows creep.
But in the darkness, like a mouse a-chewing,
She stirs as if in sleep she seemed to see
A dwelling that sets off her tiny mewing,
The house of warmth that you will build for me.

-- Irina Ratushinskaya Grey Is the Colour of Hope