Literally
Yellow houses, the hidden voice of the water, the
above windows, an old, a very old story, and again
from the start, night after night. Heroes well covered
by their death, the others over their death on bicycles,
motorcycles, buses. The last statues quietened, they
put keys on their mouths so they could yell, hurrah.
They looked elsewhere. Behind the railings shone
the black mountain, after the fire. The sad woman
passed a little later, and she unlocked the vacant house.
She left the door open; she stood in the middle of
the room, on top of a chair, dusting the chandelier,
while in the garden, the black cats ripped the dead
chicken.
Libros Libertad 