The mist has been hanging low over the village
like a suicidal thought on a long damp evening.
Poison or the rope? I remember Saddam Hussein
his fall was long and I still hear the snap as his
neck broke. What am I doing here, this tedious,
grey village and the smell of dirty woollen,
baaing sheep grazing amongst drab olive trees.
The pallid houses, shuttered and avoid seeing
the misery of the mist that drips as unstoppable
sorrow of a death´s grief that shrouds all life.
This morning, the sun was shining and the village
Looks like a fairy tale. I sit on the terrace, try to
get a humble suntan as I´m seeing the cardiologist
tomorrow and don´t want him to think, I´m sick.
This is a good place to live, a place to live a long time.
