The Curtain
The old man sits in the chair, the old woman
by the window. From her leaning shoulder, you
understand that the probably blooming tree must
be outside. By the door stands suspiciously the internal
part of the house with the vases, the lost cutlery, the
old photographs, the large curtain touching the floor,
the one meant to sew last summer, so it would lessen
the brightness of the light and the disharmony of
the furniture, but when the light turned dimmer by
itself, they didn’t need to finish it, to put the hooks,
to hang it, so it remained there, like dead in its
long peplum under the wooden stairway that faced
the wall.
Libros Libertad 