Un llum que crema

It was, secretly, a red beehive: pomegranate surviving the last crack. Today, on the other hand, it is the corpse of a fruit: inside, it retains a mass of disintegrated grains, black, veiled with white rot. And, like the blood that drains from the hanged lamb, the wine juice has been drained to the last drop. Dark, weightless, the carcass -some thick castanets- soft held by the thorny twig, left by the wind god's hand.