What you see when you open the window
By Itane Vero
He notices the light. It's a sparing flame
shivering above a wax candle. It does not
bother him how the rays ricochets against
his brittle eyes. What matters, he lives in
a circle. In which are visible. The lonely
cracks in the wall, the hollow eyes of the
hand puppet. This sitting room is for him
the universe that is expanding bit by bit.
During the day he kisses the stone floor.
At the evening he drinks frosty rainwater.
At night, he sleeps in natural moonlight.
Everything would be fine. If not the big
black side. He does not dare looking at it.
Only when the dusk crawls into his skin,
Shyly he is imagining the windowpane.
Muttering his dreams, muffling her name.