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Behind this window
Behind this window
the dark hours of tonight gather,
and snow covers our garden.
As I walk, wishing not to do so,
my naked limbs tell me things
forgotten in memory.
And my anger anguishes all
(good or noble) inside this vessel.
Dead, and without a name,
I feel the blood in my head throb
telling me how alive this body remains.
Tell me,
As your footsteps left this door,
and your scent remained,
did the birds(who always watch)
tell you for whom my life was for?
Tell me,
because this ears earned nothing more,
what was the truth?
Why have you left?
Tell me,
as I remained rotting slowly,
did you ever feel that heart(cold and cruel)
tell you where my grave would rest?
Perhaps.
But these thoughts matter little:
My grave is at home.
It burned when you closed the door.
Our door.
- Alejandro Bonfil
