End of the Show
Close the windows. Pull the curtains.
The darkness looks green under the trees. Sick women
with masks of the blind sit on the benches. Their hair
looks heavy because of the moisture. Don’t look at
them, don’t ask anything. They won’t answer. They
have that cone-like hat of the clown; they found it on
the soccer field one night under the moonlight. And
it is the same you had embroidered on it a bunch of
little bells that chimed during the familiar, misguiding
festivities. Don’t say no. I know. They have now removed
the metal sphere from those little bells and hold it in
their mouth, perhaps they taste it, for this they don’t talk.
Sometimes, you see, the time comes when the lie is not
endured, not even by that handsome, polite, innocent liar
of the world, the one with the wide sleeves so his tied
hands won’t show.
Libros Libertad 