Barraco

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Man spends his evenings in the bar Barraco, 

Quiet evenings 

when too many people gather around the perfectly shaped wooden bench

that serves as a bar where the bartender is busy as the night is encroaching 

from every corner of the city down down down

to this open yard;

man is at ease with the hands of the clock striking again and again

in a bizarre pattern – and the music is too loud as Barraco is loud.

Busy evenings, 

usually on Fridays, man talks and talks in different languages;

different languages merge into a sea and inundates the world 

that has its origin in an empty gin bottle; 

man is suddenly drowned and alone and feels the alcohol like narcotics ;

his own body drifts away where no sound is heard

but his own desolate self whimpers.

– and the music should be louder as Barraco is quiet.

 

I live but two floors above Barraco;

I see the evenings drive man into the bar , 

terrible evenings, wonderful evenings , 

evenings when my beautiful friends walk the street 

and evenings when the homeless are beaten with a truncheon. 

I keep myself shut above Barraco where the gate opens to all and happy, 

until one day I’m denied the grandeur of life; it continues there

in the bar Barraco.