Basement
Down in the basement with the old dusty bottles, the big
picture frames of bankrupt kings and dictators, there
go the desolate neighbourhood cats at night.
They sleep in forgotten baskets full of handiworks or
on top of knotty mattresses of dead children. The quiet
snake of the house passes by there. It slides among the
eggshells and clay masks. The old servant of the house
goes down there each dawn and opens the metal chest,
he takes out a bunch of tall collars, counts them one
by one, then puts them back to their places and closes
the chest. Soon after, he wipes his hands on his thighs
and goes up the stairs.
Libros Libertad 