The windmills swallowed
Don Quixote,
Ocean spat out Atlantis.
Nothing will surprise their hearts
Captured by stony aortas.

The boy from family portrait on the shelf,
Dag his bitten nails into remains of rotten orange
(which left the trail in colour of the burning hearth
across the sky),
And probably not even then,
Not once, has he wondered
What are the trenches on his mother’s face
Channelling salty water
From two black amulets.

Sister’s arms grew wings and scattered
Toward the hanging tree,
Row and untouched by loneliness,
The dog was staring
At the dry terracotta peel,  

Only the father,
Smiling and handsome in a black suit,
Resisted the tide of the scorched sunset.