The houses are not only walls and a door,
the houses are a door with a key and opaque walls
—and windows too, but windows only—
because, if the houses were made of glass, we would end up in a corner,
begging for walls, overwhelmed by the dizziness of a house
that faces the immensity of the stars.
Into the sky and beyond the horizon we head to
only until we close a window and put flowers into a vase.
And we look at them: concrete, ours,
without their world giving us the question back.
Oxana Koulikova Barros
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