One Morning
Serene waking up to the gunshots of hunters in the
olive groves, young women wash the yards, plant
flowers in flowerpots, water flows under the legs of
the bed and wet the slippers; we had a metal pencil case,
we hid our keys in it. The sense of the hidden filled
the house. We stood behind the curtains. The small
items seller passed and took his measurements. He
measured the lace, then, he rolled it again. Then the
rain started and sauntered onto the grass. The silence
was deeper in the wall closet and inside the stopped
pendulum. Death, he said, is quiet since it has nothing
to hide.
Libros Libertad 