BRIEF HISTORY OF THE DEAD

The men who died appear
in the course of the holy nights.
They carry like a slow sound of bells
on bare legs
and, if they speak, they assure that there is a world
that nobody knows about.

They come from afar and walk the trails
like suffering seaweed;
green are the men who died
the same as the river was;
they keep memories that they do not forget
and slowly they cross slowly
that dark corner that they discover,
that cold and lonely street
the patio that of the mansion,
the corridor shrouded in clouds,
the room that they dreamed of,
the whole life, creepy and silly.

The dead come out at night
groomed and freshly ironed
and with fear they approach to make noise
to touch the chair in which they sat,
the bedside table and the inkwell
and even the duster for the dust.

Then, as if nothing happened or had
happened once,
they open the letters that arrived late,
they finish reading the newspaper
of the day of his death,
they rummage a little in the pantry,
they contemplate the children who rest
and they go through the door, stealthy,
a little sad, but comforted
because there is no news, because even without them,
it seems that everything is going,
Well, the kitchen is collected
and the faucet does not leak.