Ancient Hill
We passed the road with the eucalyptus. We climbed
the hill with the thorns. All belong to us and were exposed
to the sunshine, more silent, more secret, open graves,
lions made of marble, rocks, and the touch of the internal
wind on the voice “I’ll return”. “You’ll return where to?”
the other man asked. The old man pinned a thorn onto his lapel.
And suddenly, down on the asphalt road, five trucks started.
They carried big pieces of wooden crates, filled with golden
masks, clay idols, and a lekythos.
Libros Libertad 