Conversations are private.
Furniture talks to each other
with the groan of its wet veins.
Behind the curtains with flowers,
with perfumes of yesteryear,
the little ghosts also talk.
Jammed drawers.
The doors are sweaty and unpainted.
The long pale table,
seems to drag its crooked legs
in few vibrations.
As if he wanted to escape boredom.
Trying to shake off the back
Chinese vase with paper flowers.
The table speaks with the velvet chairs,
of its former occupants.
Those who left one by one without leaving a trace.
Without anyone crying.
Their conversations were recorded on the walls
as symbols of unconquerable caves.

The house is alone in the neighborhood that falls.
little by little
No complaint.
The house is dying of sadness.
He has no one whispering to him in the shutters.