We look from windows as far down the sill: a stretch,
the contours of a pasture against the cutting sky
or prematurely, grayish walls confine a murky yard.
A world is framed in light and dark;
the sun is seen but only partlyseen,
the lazy nerves seldomstrain to watch a wider expanse,
the longenduring sun when nearer the windows
or better outside them.

The weary man sits, a tower in his mind or simply
uncaring, maybe afraid
making little effort but for the rockingof a tumblechair,
termite-infested cobwebbed, a wall stands by,
the floor complains aboutthedying:
the man is working on the notion of a pacingworld
when all that moves in fact is his shaky fumbling head.

Outside a scene ispassingby
as if to attract a necessary mate
but the closingof the eye sees not the beckoning
and let is passes by, a child being deprived of
his white socks or the colored shirt.
How often do we leave our rocking chairs
the temporal movement, the dizzy nerves
and approach the windowsnearerstill
or with the brave eye better yet
outside them?

- Dias