The Unwavering Sound of Hammers (Poem)
The light beams through the cracks of my window and all I want to do is stare at the true colors of the sky. But instead, I lay asleep in my bed, so heavy in the morning, when a faint but steady sound resonates in the lowest part of my ears.
It thumps like the mechanics of a heartbeat; slowly gaining pace, rising and reaching the highest parts of my brain.
I wake up but the hammering does not stop.
It is not a dream.
I look outside the window and the streets are deserted, no soul, no sound, no one darkens the sunbeams of these early hours.
I get to the streets and I walk on recently paved sinking holes guarded by sidewalks made of parked cars.
I look up at the sky. It’s shaded by a silhouette of uneven buildings that have sprouted overnight.
As I walk, the sound seems ahead of me at close distance but then it diverges and occupies the empty space behind me.
At different interludes it rages on. Its echo that’s split in three, bounces off the walls of the silhouettes and showers my ears.
The city, yes the city that not long ago used to be hills and trees, is immersed with bricks where trees used to live and wheels where coyotes used to roam. And the sound of crickets is a repetitive clenching of metal and stone.