Winter
And again, this exile, reverent old men with their canes,
their long beards and hair, fluttering outside the doors,
with their ripped overcoats elongated by time and dragged
onto
the soil like chlamys. The young went away with others
leaving the food tray by the front step of the old man.
They took along the diamonds. On the other hand,
who’s hungry these days?
The food is cold, the wall is frosty, and pictures, medals,
and framed diplomas. You’d better not look at them, he
said, before you, there were others, Alexander, Nikias,
Dimitris, they died. Their beloved books died too, and
the statues that looked at the garden during the waning
moon focused on the belt buckle. Reverent old men,
persistent, unconvinced, with long fingernails, and
the frost
couldn’t reach further inside; the last, slow, glorious
gestures
fold the big flag carefully, make a pillow of it, and lie
on your backs, gazing at the beautiful, indifferent sky,
equally just or unjust over all the sacrifices, the struggle
and the regrets.
The cloud that distances itself to the right next to the
abandoned house.
Libros Libertad 