Won´t I Panic in a Pit Now?
by Luis Ullán
She prays on the corrupt pew
of a devastated temple with hanged lovers.
It´s a heavy wooden cradle of sinners,
a bag of rotten, unreal wishes,
as a silent bombshell in the closet
playing hide and seek
while winter runs away from the disaster;
and tickling hours come after me.
It´s like a subtle practical joke,
a ruse for the crucified observer
spoiled by the non-believers,
waiting for the condemned to repent,
as his realm falls all over again.