Sunday
It gets dark early. The voice of a child remains, a dry leaf
on the foggy page. Sunday
is the maid that just finished its work, it doesn’t know what
to do with its hands.
This tired Sunday puts its swollen hands under its apron
and snoozes sitting on the stool and listening to the noise
of the chimney funnel. Yet a few days ago
it dreamed of a colorful kite with a long tail, being held
by the youngest, most bitter hour of Monday.
The flour-glue dried up in the cup. And the small lamp
resembles the white shell of the egg the sick woman ate
in her bed.
An orphan star coughs just outside the door. The old-evening
sneezes in front of the basement window. The general’s
statue will freeze in the park under the wrath of the rain
and the years.
The wind unpins its medals one by one.
A humble sorrow is spread on your face, like the smell
of naphthalene on an old dress of the girl.
Only the harmonica song is heard in the rain
like a black dog forgotten in the desolate garden
and it doesn’t scratch at the door nor it barks, nor
it leaves.
Let us then open the door to go outside, outside
where the rain and wind will hit our face.
The evening il silenzio is heard from the metallic barracks.
What time do the soldiers go to sleep?
The trumpet sound settles under the pines
of the Sanatorium.
Libros Libertad 