Manuel Zaragoza's Tale of Sunlight

Listen, nephew.

When I opened the cantina

At noon

A triangle of sunlight

Was stretched out

On the floor

Like a rug

Like a tired cat.

It flared in

From the window-

Actually the shutter-

Through a small hole

Shaped like a yawn.

Strange, I thought

And placed my hand

Before the opening,

But the sunlight

Did not vanish.

I pulled back

The shutters

And the room glowed,

But this pyramid

Of whiteness

Was simply brighter.

The sunlight around it

Appeared soiled

Like the bedsheet

Of a "borrocho".

Amazed, I locked the door,

Closed the windows.

Workers, in from

The fields, pounded

To be let in,

Children peeked

Through the shutters,

But I remained silent.

I poured a beer,

Ata table

Shuffled a pack

Of old cards,

And watched it

Cross the floor,

Hang on the wall

Like a portrait,

Like a calendar

Without numbers.

When a fly settled

In the sunlight

And disappeared

In a wreath of smoke,

I tapped it with a broom,

Spat on it.

The broom vanished.

The spit sizzled.

It is the truth, little one.

I stood eye to blank eye

And by misfortune

This finger

This pink stump

Entered the sunlight,

Snapped off

With a dry sneeze,

And fell to the floor.

Structure

63 lines · 2 stanzas