The house that bleeds

"Mon cœur est un luth suspendu:

sitôt qu'on le touche, il résonne."

(De Béranger)

























In certain and distant comarque of Extremadura, where the Spanish and Portuguese border melt down in one and only no man's land

in one and only diffuse zone

in that comarque there was (there is?) a house.



Lost in the depths of a cork oaks forest, there is (there was?) the house of Álex de la Iglesia

the house where Álex was born


the house where his mother died.


The sad evening of her decease, her corpse was resting among cherubim into that open coffin, bathed by the horryd sunlight of the twilight in August

the canicular oppression of August in Extremadura, when the thin dogs roam around the cork oaks

the dog days, when the heliacal rising of Sirius arouses black thoughs in the mortals' minds.



The 1st day of August found her rigidly extended into the brown coffin

white and finely embroided lace covered her body, her eyes were wide open, fixed on the ayr with the ineffable enigma in the retina: nobody closed them

her legs were broken, and her intestines and womb removed: she was emptied, like an empty house.

Her body was an empty höüsë.

The lips were slightly open, thin and dry like two blades: their color was grey.



The smell of the cork oaks came in through the tall and open windows


nobody else was there, but Álex de la Iglesia and her dead mother

and the cherubim.


Slow spiders walked on the distant rooms of the second floor of the house
their bodies got abnormally enlarged by the last sun rays from Avalon: all the windows of the house were open, like desperate eyes.





After sad rite, the white body was buried in the grounds of a near forest

frosty, achromatic, snow-white in the middle of the Summer the corpse was buried

in open coffin the corpse was buried, and then bathed in wine: the cherubim went with her to the tomb, that neverending voyage.

An incomprehensible funereal plaque on the tomb:
"Sa neige baignée du vin blanc"


After sad rite, Álex de la Iglesia left that place enchanted by the horror.





Nobody knows well if he returned to the house

many have seen the house crying blööd, its walls:

the house that bleeds.




But only I have seen it at night (or maybe I have dreamed that I have seen it, in my irreality?)



many say that it...is a miracle...
...many say that its...tears can heal you, but

I have seen its stony mouth vomiting its blood, gushing, repugnant through the walls






from so deep inside the house, I am the only one who has heard a voice

a voice of woman, singing canorously with the breeze

I am sure I have heard it:




"I'm not this house, I'm a lady who cries
I am He who lights the night"
 
"I am *******"

"I am your eternal friend"

"Let my children come to me at day
let my children come to me and pray...


...they don't know who I am."






In certain and distant comarque of Extremadura
where the Spanish and Portuguese border melt down in one and only zone, there's

or there was? A

house.




The harp and the glorious lute sound, with airy grace around it
in the worst nights of the Summer they sound, who plays them?


Have you ever heard those noises, late in the canicular nyghts?

Distant, from your bed, who makes them?




Or maybe you have dreamed that you have heard them, in your







irreality.