Ecce Homo

Sits in front of the window
Easily submerged
In the crumb of old age

A cliff shadow tenses
Wants to become a bearing fruit
He lets it go

Clatter of hooves
Some nuns from a nearby convent
Flock to the Sea
Wrapped up
In the vine leaves

He accompanies them
With the silence
Of peeling lips

The walls beset him
Stern foreheads
Prominent chins
Inquire about conscience
Let the leaves of the memory
Draw
On the tangerine rinds

Ecce Homo
Yawns
Scratches the chest hair
Hangs out shrinking space
Like carpets running with watercolours
In the garden
Scrabbling on all fours
Up his chilled legs

The bell of the matins
Sways the dried-up boat
Of the valley
Suddenly blends
In a resounding chord
Of a china cup
Tidily steaming with tea

He drops it
Watches an old-man-faced floor
Being covered
With a full octave
Of the splinter

Moons are reflected in them
Shining lemon-like

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