Poseidon’s
The seashore houses wear out on a daily basis as
the salinity, the sunshine, the winds consume them.
The window
shutters lie down on their backs inside the rooms.
Sometimes, a fisherman, or a shepherd, at noon or
during the twilight, enters to relieve himself. And
suddenly a creak is heard from the big wall closet.
You don’t have time to cross yourself. The closet
opens by itself. From within the rotten planks, at
depth, a golden triune shines. The fisherman runs
out with his belt undone. Around the space, the sea
sparkles in its gleaming indifference.
Libros Libertad 