THE DEAD HOUSE
Life is so simple after all; so beautiful.
Mother leaned over her plate and cried.
Father touched her shoulder with his hand.
“It’s from being happy,” she says.
And we look, out of the open windows,
the endless diaphanous night with the thin
moon, like a finger forgotten between
the light blue pages of a quiet, closed book.
It’s a little cold tonight; autumn is close, you see.
Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow we’ll close
the window again. Once, we needed wood for
the fireplace, nothing to it, not only wood
from the forest but our old furniture too, heaven
doors, beams, sofas, coffins, pipes, rifles, even
the wooden cart of my grandfather who died years ago.
Libros Libertad 