The Village

Houses bubbling down from the heaths,
growing like plasticine that feeds
out of a soil that bows. Their kitchens stifled,
under the gigantic metal forks,
and the royal tables that lay covered,
under the white sheets.

Walls cannot withstand their timid fabric,
they turn to fluid,
splash into the ground.
Like overflown pots, they expand
till they reach an outcast friend,
a long forgotten sea.

Molds that know no sculptor,
their ground is a tunnel,
that disperses the fields
through a spider net. The bedroom
is the playground, the loft
their silent cemetery.