The
Bed
Our
balcony's door is open
The
whole room's fillings are less
important
now
because
the wind
is
warm and penetrates
the
inside, renovating the surface
with
new dust -
earthly
particles, learning to
survive.
As
we do, so efficiently
like
now
take
the landscape
I
stretch one hand and it's gone
the
gray wall behind the mountain
the
mountain and all its trees
are
gone
Only
the wind remains
because
it's faster and able
to
readjust into different
forms,
liquid positions
responding
to
pressure
A
warm wind is blowing
and
the framed photographs, the books
piled
on the floor
the
dirty underwear left aside -
nothing
is important
The
bed is a different matter -
being
the one human organ residing outside
the
body's conventional border -
it
gives birth and death
a
hand, extra sweet or bitter
it
helps us
transcend into
a
non verbal language
Up
in the mountain
the
wind keeps turning the shovels and
an
exquisite aesthetic phrase
forms,
somewhere
A
bed must be as simple and white as possible.
©
José Coelho, 2015
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