The door; out of it there is everything;
Flags and noise, traffic policemen, temptation apples, toothy eyes, ears calculating breath bangs, tinny moon counting steps, cheeks flowering with love ready to pass to oblivion, flattering choruses, cola tans, gay commodities, markets of puffy speech, narrow space…
While, inside, on a wooden chair, in front of a loaf of bread and a bottle of oil, at a silent corner, sky and homeland sit at a child’s lap,
And spread out.
A door is a wooden membrane, populated by algae and weevils, dividing between a tiny throne and a wide prison.
A door is two Os between D and R;
The D of destruction and dogmas outside,
And the R of reposing sea in a water drop.
A door is an openness and closure, around two nails, between death and resurrection.
A door is a bridge standing on bars of desire and lamentations, between intimacy and public, between the ego and its fragments.
A door is a meeting between exits and entries, between rejoices and ‘oh’s, over a threshold.