I am a glass figure

in the window

of the ongoing moment

in a distant winter house;

the winds of yesterday

asleep

among the trees,

like Jesus's disciples

in the Garden of Gethsemane;

the past hours -

after collecting the aimlessness

of the living

and the death of the dead -

gathering out on the marshes

for their debriefing

I am a glass figure

that the light shines through

without a trace,

until the passage of years

and the remorse of times past

leave minuscule cracks

in my mind,

refracting the rays

into the colours of the rainbow

that was believed to be a sign

of a covenant

between the Dictator

and his figurines

I am a glass figure

in the window that faces dusk,

listening, immobilized,

to the draining depopulation

of bodies

and the fluttering

of the massive transmigration

of souls;

noisy flocks of jackdaws

over city parks and town halls