Every house
Has another house within.
In the smells, the roughness of the walls,
In the little cracks
That barely are seen.

The voices remain there,
The dreams remain there,
Our gentle touches remain there.

It is also in the furniture.
The same house with different furniture
Is another house, with another house.
The tables lose their colors,
And is still a table,
A chair changes until no chair endures:
It is a tree once again,
In a forest of other chairs
And doors, and wardrobes.

We cannot sit anymore,
We cannot rest,
Neither be there:
It's somebody else's house.

But between the cracks
The air blows
A distinct sound
Of every spoken words
In this house
Of fathers, mothers,
Sons, workers, masons.

Bricks are just bricks.