On the crumbling scaffold,
over there, the rope is shrinking.
It is like a string of rancid pearls,
shrouded by a skin of sorrow,
blanching like a girl
about to lose her virginity.
The rope resembles a matador
of dusty arenas of a distant past,
now unable to fight anymore.
I often amble among the pieces
of forgetfulness rampaging
the exhausted yard,
with the whispers of a familiar voice
disturbing the shadows around.
The leaves sleep, dead,
upside down on the rocks turned
into partial statues of dried sap.
One aspen leaf on the scaffold
is like the Bermuda triangle
that has taken you away.
This leaf, as green as the lightning
searching its body, is where
I have lost myself too,
bleeding, crying, dying, tortured.
We shared a bond,
grandmother, but not our house.