One of the doors

has jaws corroded by time. When someone enters or leaves,
the hinges creak as if afraid of being slaughtered. Sometimes, only sometimes, it's the wind,
that pushes it with its foot
like a straggling hen in broad daylight.

Other times it's the drizzle that moves it,
and the door trembles with bare hands and aching heart.

Another door hasn't opened yet;
the owners fear that behind it lies the sea,
the premature victory of the sand,
and the futile struggle of two mouths that
smear their lips with rice.

There is also a third door.

From time to time, someone knocks on it
so softly it seems as if they're doing it with
the body of a dove. No one opens it.

And no one has ever asked who it is.

Who's knocking? Sometimes. Then someone.

Sometimes no one. And the street too,

and the silence so little.