The house of the setting sun. My skin. Maze.

Abstract

HOUSE OF THE SUNSET

The sun has set on the roof of a dilapidated house,
Just like a ball the boys would kick,
And it bleeds: the gray tiles turn red
It was as if a purple river flowed down them
All the way to the window, those who don't look outside,
Windows that only look inside.
And there is nothing inside, nothing to whisper,
Not even to run through little feet,
No smiles at the darlings, no pounding on the pots,
Nor those quiet sounds that women make.