Winterlight

Winter-light No one walks on the old road anymore, not even on a day when almond trees are in bloom. Blue weed and thorny bushes are shooting through, one day the road will be out of sight. It leads to a ruin of a house, doors and windows long since stolen, a door frame made of carved stone too; half the roof has caved in. A vagabond lived in the ruin for a time, till gruff voices told him to get lost. I saw him slowly fade away, erased by shimmering winter light. He must have walked long was found in a grotto, seeking shelter from the rain. Three days dead, they said. No saintly women came, cleansed and wrap his tired body in a shroud. Funeral at five witnessed by a pale functionary of the state. Church bells didn’t toll. No one walks on the old road anymore, not since the bushes grew eagle’s talons and a boa constrictor took abode in the ruin.