Linóleo

On the wall of portraits
An old paper face is becoming abstract
And without varnish or good ink
Just the crack it left when the gouge passed

In the corner of memories
A piece of linoleum worn out by the Sun
At our age there's no room for doubts
There's no place on the threshold to cry out censorship

The twilight light is special
It's like a monster to face in the mirror
And our frame is an altar
With candles illuminating the secrets

But there's still much to do here
Before dementia arrives

One more point on your scale
For the resemblance of a painter with hands of a scholar
The clouds come and in my head like cotton landscapes
With very strange shapes

And our home is special
Smell of grass and humidity from the night dew
And our way of thinking
Like fishing rods in the desert

But there's still much to do here before dementia arrives