With hands in pockets I tread,
Gently caressing the walls ‘round,
For they ne’er shun me, nor shed
My secrets they keep safe and sound.

Courtesy’s left hanging from a wall
Next to my scarves, in shadow I slip,
Now, wishing to wear out my soles
On this endless pointless trip.

The marble white gives no heed
To the questions I pose in vain,
In gravel it doth blend, indeed,
And a solemn greeting I feign,

While my legs, they move with care
Through a square too grey for cheer,
For in winter’s far too wide and scared,
In July ‘tis packed and near.

There now, an old friend peddles
Fruits and tomatoes anew,
He speaks no more of matters
O’ the nite before, though true;

Hands are cut in the wind’s way,
And the ply-board, weathered and worn,
Speaks of Schumann’s distant tales
As if days past had not torn.

How many here do not pass,
How many wish not to see;
From the window, we spy a lass,
A fellow walks his dog, carefree.

How we once longed to flee
From this cage, far away,
And now I feel I can’t agree
And thou sayest “I can’t stay.”

I slither to’rd the dry river,
No rain kissed him these months,
A heated quarrel doth deliver,
‘Twixt a lady and priests in bunch.

I sidestep with lowered ears
And tread the cobbled stone;
They bicker o’er taxes, fears,
Moral strictures and power’s throne.

Here, as youth, I would race,
The river’s waters still flowed,
A shy path’s humble grace
With the scent of dung bestowed.

‘Tis I, and others, maybe ten,
Who know the loss we faced,
That stench that still clings to our ken,
That weary, darkened place.

I wait for a heavenly command
For a few fleeting minutes,
Shift a stone, and there I stand,
Count’n’ years that’ve evanesced.

How much it costs to treasure
The smallest things we hold dear,
How much loneliness we measure
After a thousand mornings clear.

‘Twixt the cracks, a gecko sleeps,
And the hostile pellitory creeps,
Plays upon my shadowed ground,
Soiling my thoughts, in and out.

I have lost my self within
The memories, a foggy mass;
Gently I caress the filter tip,
And vanish behind the glass.

I count my steps to the marble,
And sing a prose song fair,
Perhaps I’m calmer, more able,
Aged. I return home, there.

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Mail: delriomarco.md@gmail.com

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