At dawn the city awakes at a time that won’t be part of History, among the streets named after the characters that walk on them. And then you see the doors. Doors turned into canvasses that no longer protect the castle. What castle? They are meant to let mice enter, and the dust, and the rain, and the street vendor, and the cup of coffee and the sparrow. They are always open for the good son and the prodigal one. Everyone. They are living heritage. They give shelter to the runaway slave. Doors that speak to us without a mouth, that offer me leaves torn from books. They give shelter to the most forbidden sex, and to the dreams and fears of the thief. They are still open wide by my grandmother, so she can escape death and get away from the promised heaven. They are there to allow the return of those who departed. Old, damaged, they still protect things winds couldn’t take away. They deserve medals on their old chests. They are the gates to a nation.
Authors
Amílcar Pérez Riverol,
amilcar
