Mileto, the first dog

Mileto, the first dog

Sways in the wind, motionless pendulum,
corpse of a doggie, carcass of a child
hanged by those same hands which, clasped in act of pray,
bend their knees, in front of a cross.

It will be a woman to cut the rope,
and causing, with no mercy, the thud, a little later.

The skeletal branches of the pear-tree,
denuded in a mourning of all its leaves,
hold forgotten fruits, close to Mileto,
almost for protecting, reassuring him.

He crossed the secret threshold,
inaccessible to the authoritarian fathers.
Whims of Goya, Whims of war, Whims of a woman
they now belong to a zig-zag of branches.

In a storm of fur and hearts
Neraneve is the only one not to forget,
unripe clot and unseen spine, hemorrhage of water and blood,
renegade nephew, who has recreated her DNA in vitro.

But Mileto won't see the autumn leaves again,
become scarlet lips in his memory, on the bare pear-tree.

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