the young girl cries
she met a man once in a while
arranged her hair for him
that’s all she ever did

the old woman looks at her
heavy in her armchair
cleaning rearranging her spectacles
answering first to her
then to the audience the walls
why there were walls in that conversation
wonders the young one

the old woman broods carefully
her words
my dear didn’t you know a baby dies
when it doesn’t cry

the young woman stares
she seems to blend with the white paint
mostly on the line between ceiling and walls
why is the other one crying
this is only my conjunctivitis
answers the old woman

the lonely one leaves
two steps at a time
her secrets swayed carefully
in another one’s lap