This is the cellar,
imagine, the fear
no floorboards, no blanket, no food
even though it’s only for one day
and one night
or maybe a little more
just enough time to let the whip do its job
imagine, no water,
that’s the worst,
and this silence
except for my voice trapped inside my head
whispering verses, rhymes, curses, songs, prayers
strange, meaningless words
and some other voice too, a comforting one,
maybe God’s
but there’s the stench too, that’s the devil,
this stink of rotting garbage
and the dampness, foul rats and ghosts,
all the evil enchantments
the screams of another voice, a hateful one.
No. Is it true? Can it be?
How is it possible?
Is this dreadfully shrieking voice really
my own?
I would starve
but there are boys around my age, more or less
The boys are her sons.
Don Nicolás is the merciful one
a whispering boy who slips me
crumbs of sweet bread
through a crack in the wall,
and precious sips of water
even though I am too weak and too stunned
to thank him
What a strange
unexpected answer
to all my horrified curses
and prayers