For Aidela in memoriam
Long days leaning against the window
of bare bricks,
overlooking the agricultural landscape.
At my feet a piece of stale bread,
a knob of brackish water.
The light illuminated the walls of the room
as in the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh,
insisting, that outside, in the valley, everyone is happy.
Separated, unpolluted.
Rags and a spider’s web are my comfort.
Long days with the visit of a few brave ones,
who amused themselves with bread, water
and a little piece of wood.
They were days of wishing for the end and life would end.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
