Laura de Jesus

 

Window

Hollowed out for enough time,

a window guarded 

the internal movements 

of the house, 

The womb branched 

rotten into the mosses

that even take over the ceilings.

Figures, we imagine figures, 

hidden in the doorposts

Ghosts that not even the flow 

of the days kills.

Those who saw his rise admire his fall.

And they get lost in the empty hours, 

looking, inventing moments 

and guessing reasons 

that time has created for the decay.