A Balconey

   The dog is a prisoner,
the lady is an elderly,
Every night, after its middle, she takes him to the garden below the opposite building,
Pees in his usual place, after sniffing the earth like every time,
He mostly knows the place, the place of urination, but animals, unlike us perhaps, have not lost the pleasure of doubt even in the instinctive things,
He squirms a little on the grass
rubs his back with a tree,
walks slowly even though he is young,
but his step used to follow in the footsteps of his old companion,
A tiny spot of light in front of the entrance to the building from a lantern hanging on a two-meter-long concrete arch, written on the arch the name of the building, mostly a female name “Frontena”,
A waistband of artificial flowers surrounds the arch on the line of light,
in that spot of light the dog used to urinate,
perhaps he realizes that the flowers are not alive,
perhaps he objects to this entire style of life,
or perhaps he thinks they are sclerotic of thirst so he irrigates them with his urine
does not bark, I never heard him barking,
silent as an ageing of his companion,
takes care of her last years with the lack of his years
A saint is he, like any dog
Nothing special in him or in me, except that we are neighbours in housing,
and I am a bored prisoner as him, inside a monotony of the day
go out to breathe a little after midnight
pull an elderly dying inside me.


    Except for Saturdays and Sundays
The street is empty all week long,
Only the bus splits the wall of this nightly silence with its snarling.
A few passengers in its rebore,
stops at a station in the bottom of a building,
A door in the middle of it opens, accompanied by a small light below the door that illuminates the footsteps of those who are dismounting of it.
No lights in the street except the eyes of the traffic lights winking in every while their colours,
A young man usually comes out of the door, at the end of his twenties, dressing an Indian costume, or to be more precisely, cyan jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a black turban of Indian traditional costume,
After a while, I see him on the neighbouring balcony
speaks at length on his mobile phone,
mostly with his family, there in the distance,
The clock refers to one after midnight is therefore about nine o’clock in the morning there,
they just woke up, he just returned from his night work,
laughs a little bit, and sometimes his voice drowns with a tremor, I think its the disability of nostalgia,
perhaps it happens to him, as the voice of his mother lurks from the other side of the call, the earth,
The air is heavy and yellow,
Clouds are jogging,
sprinkling the rain lightly,
two minutes at most above each building under their track,
the young man leaves the balcony,
the silence prevails again,
some riders pass by bicycles or motorcycles,
the silence again,
then a powerful whistling with an oscillation rises and falls, issuing every moment of silence from the nearby pine
the wasps are singing,
there are several nests for them, between the pine plaits,
a berserk choir,
a choir that knocks the drums of war,
a choir that can kill several beings if it attacks,
But it’s such as all other beings
likes to raise its singing high in the night

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