The room of golden air

Do you remember the forest? At the entrance of town.


















Do you remember the path? The path of this gruesome land
this land:


there's a house in the forest. At the entrance of town

interconnected -or hidden- by the path. The path to this barren land
this land:

deep inside, in the rarest depths of this oblong house, in the room of golden air
rotting core of this house.


29 chairs around a rectangular table where no-one dwells
and it's a bad sign when you see it: 
why are you seeing it?

29 white plates on white tablecloth where nobody roams 
like a supper for the Christ and you in the room of golden air
why I'm seeing you?









And didn't that house belong to the governor of Flanders, senor Fernando Álvarez de Toledo y Pimentel, 3rd Duke of Alba?
—They murmur, assenting like toothless old women during the Eucharist.

And didn't he meet in dreams the prefigure of Ammit, Eater of the Dead at the light of the chandeliers?
—They recite, devouring their greenish puree with salivated lips.























Do you remember the road? At the death of town
visible -or hidden- according to meteorological variable denominators

deep inside, in the rarest depths of this oblong boscage, the boscage of golden air
rotting core of this land:

when the nights are plenilune
plenilune of January, when the nights
and the rumorous putrefaction comes to your ears
as the town respires its sleep away 
inflated like a burning cyst
a tiny light may always be seen from the path
shining undecided and yellow into the house

and the light is yellow, yellow like the oro.



But when the midnight is erect hairs
erect in the dogs sirloins, the midnight
and all those dreams that scare you come to your eyes
as the urbanization exhales turgid like a deformed toad
or an unhealthy bodily excrescence
a ghastly iridescence may always be seen from the road
shining frozen like the albedo of the Moon

in the room of golden air, shining gamboge like eau de nil.


But there, in the centre of the room
29 chairs are delineated around an elongated table
creme caramel the walls, decorated with pink portrait
portrait of the Lady Who Cries, sylvanite the frame
expanded your retinas at the gilded luz, expanded in nyctalopia
deep inside, in the rarest depths of this asymmetrical room, the room of golden air
rotting core of this house:


as through rhomboidal prism I see you


but why I'm seeing you?