Not a house

Not a house

"If you put the hand now
to make me a roof
upon my forehead, it'll be
a whole little house:
the chest, a wall,
and I'm hiding in the corner
made with the other wall,
the arm"
But stop, woman,
look at the mountain chain
of pillows: the shelter
where you can gather the candid
wide winter of the sheets.
On the crest, look
the lamp's warm gold,
mid sun in the twilight
delicately bleeding
and saying he's not suffering.
It is our landscape,
woman. To get here
I also travelled across
uncertain roads. Woman,
hide again your face
in my chest's corner.
Don't look at me, and don't let me
see myself inside your eyes
the dubius figure,
without stone nor composure.

Gabriel Ferrater, Les dones i els dies (The women and the days)