A castle inhabited by spirits
Weather-worn openings where windows used to be
Stones half eaten
By salt and winds
Only veins protrude
Under the cliff on which I tower
Waves are gnawing
Working on me
To turn again into dust
On the walls
To turn again into a heap of stone
A natural shape
Not something maked with a human hand
And the memories of stones
No-one can see
Only the memories
Of stone
Keep the rememberance
Of a touch of a human hand
And they quiver with delight
A palm
A back of the hand
A palm
Delicacy which the stone
Is longing for
Which it does not have and never can