Some houses and some owners

Some houses are born dead. Always with dust on the stairs. Always with cobwebs in the windows. And always with the most mature figs, but also the most troubled of the weeds. Always with beds in which ever someone has left a mark. And neighbors do not remember anyone, because they still think about it. Some houses have more wind in the chimneys, than even the sand bears. And with more salt of sludge in the walls, than the seabed keeps. Some houses, because they do not have landlords- often crying accidentally by echo. And the man who lost his face, is still in the rust of the anchors. And in the rotten taste of the oars. And in the drip-troughs. He is somewhere there, at his death, but returns to the living. The rocks that pass on the return, are worn on the wafer tops. Their heavens do not hear enough, to listen to who he was - in his records. He searches for the waffle lump, where his face is left. But the faces in the mulch are many. And they all stick to his emptiness. And the loam of the rocks is their foam. The froth runs out into the foam. And it is collected yesterday in its salt- see you tomorrow. And after tomorrow. Always. The only one is each person. And maybe the person is a cigarette, granted by the Highest on Credit in the captain's cold breath. Or the last direction of his compass. And the mother who is forever waiting in the silent candle, in front of the window. And he blinds slowly in his bars. The denting teeth of the father, they bit another candle desperately. But the flame does not cry the prodigal, but melts the memory of the old man. The fisherman who throws nets in dreams of a widow who sleeps like a monument. And yet they are filling with the mire its nets, instead of the fish of his memories. A widow of joy, which he repeats his moments in pictures. And the dark album of her future, refused images on his pages. The girl standing on your watch- in seaman's camouflage of loneliness. To forget your drought of doom. And often talks to crabs. Heck their own Cancer in hope to teach her to go back in time. He is the invisible Cancer in his heart, he decided to go his way to the end. forward and ever forward to marble. He is charcoal in the morning, lit by the sweat of coal of some drunkards, night dockers. Their longings are in the deepest. And the wind on which they are spoken, and where no one will be scattered. The man of faces is his eternity. Lose face - win another. He is, in fact, the guardian of all dead houses! Their doors open, to get fresh air. The dust of the stairs go to the sun. And in the waste tree screaming glitter. The windows hang the spiders of their cobbles. And they invite the lovers' benches. They are shaved from the weeds in the yards. And the figs drop in their hands of barefoot children. And they do not despise. And the smooth hairstyles of the beds rummaging with their sheets. Warm up the smoky covers, as if they were dogs, their owners. And the wind in the chimneys he still gets smoke. The walls change mirrors with their sludge and projected fasting reflections. But the living probably do not know to recognize the signs of breathing in the houses called tombs. And every time unnoticed invisible people revive monuments. In the language of the sea talked the houses of the living are dead. For the houses of the dead to live. Here every house, from the salt, conceives ghosts. To stay forever.