Ghazal beginning with lines from Szymborska

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

Twisting in the wind – don’t think of laundry, apples.
There’s a shadow in the language: a long stain on the city walls.

Tailing ancestors through graveyards. Husband or father,
it’s a man’s name we’re buried under.

I dream a hallway, dark with all doors shut.
Behind one, light shifts its weight.

I hardly know what to do next.
Do I breathe in or out?

Two rivers in one valley.
Let’s call them Prosper, Sorrow.