A todos los que en su infancia tenían un escondite secreto...
There, standing
silent and conscious,
a child’s play
under the chocolate table.
Flying high
with coloured pencils
that still
and still echo on an adolescent mind.
There, waiting
with a sheet of paper,
scrabbled
and then, given as a present.
Smelling old wood,
pepper, and olive oil
that squeaks
and squeaks on her deep memory.
Drafts of nothing,
of legs walking round the hiding-place,
of laughs reverberating,
of an empty room.
Silence.
