The Family Portrait

The windmills swallowed Don Quixote, Ocean spat out Atlantis. Nothing will surprise their hearts Captured by stony aortas. The boy from family portrait on the shelf, Dag his bitten nails into remains of rotten orange (which left the trail in colour of the burning hearth across the sky), And probably not even then, Not once, has he wondered What are the trenches on his mother’s face Channelling salty water From two black amulets. Sister’s arms grew wings and scattered Toward the hanging tree, Row and untouched by loneliness, The dog was staring At the dry terracotta peel, Only the father, Smiling and handsome in a black suit, Resisted the tide of the scorched sunset.