Start writing for free on quadernoCielo Colorado
La puerta es blanca.
Mis ojos son tiza pastosa.
Mi boca está marchita.
La observo fría,
sin responder al viento vivo y escandaloso.
Mis ojos están ahí.
Mi boca no le promete al viento.
La puerta no promete al viento.
El viento no me mira ni me llama.
Me deja.
Me asfixia.
Our picks
Become a supporter of quaderno
Support this independent project and get exclusive benefits.
Start writing today on quaderno
We value quality, authenticity and diversity of voices.
Comments
There are no comments yet, be the first!
You must be logged in to comment
Log in