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, making up moments, and guessing

reasons that time has created for its decay.