GALLERY
GALLERY
In the distance it seemed
cold squeal of a drunk, but it was the screech of night bus engine that made
its route. The gallery in silence. A hunchback lay sleepless, released, his
jailbird, resigned to being little more than a piece of furniture. Explosions
piston cars, taxis or other cyclically broke the silence and the silence
returned. The darkness was floating in a dead sea of light, for which there was
no longer anyone. The private terraces, and their owners were deserted and
snored.
In the parking, lot one constable, between Goytisolo's poems, grumbled carrying garbage and surrounded by concrete, could
hear his own echo and free up vital frustrations, he was lonely, very lonely in
the city.
Goytisolo's poems
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