The way to the basement is fraught with danger.

The stairs moan and creak

and occasionally steps are missing.

The basement is as dark as a rainy day,

and going down the stairs perfectly,

i still might break my neck.

I descend with a candle, feeling my way

among the shadows.

The basement is a tomb. After the basement

there is nothing. And today I have come to the basement

after all these years.

i gag in the stagnant air.

A rat runs between my legs. The light of the candle trembles, but in this basement there are no bats, only bones. 1 put the candle down, tie a bandana over my nose, and pull out my instruments. There are books and manuscripts in the basement and broken music boxes and a Louis XIV chair and a Mona Lisa with no eyes and two fangs. in the basement, we accumulate so many things-Above the basement there is a house and I can feel its weight, so 1 come down to the basement alone to see what holds it up. This is only a dark room like any hell, and like any hell, memories live here. 1 raise the broom and spin around as if I were Russian roulette, but the tears in my eyes are not daughters of this dust. I am here in the basement.

If I shout -HELP- no one would hear me

except the hysterical rats and the dozing spiders.

The basement is a prison, a strait

jacket, and this is your house

and you have put me in this basement

I am that prisoner who moans and cires out-

you tighten the screws while

i creak in the light of the candle,

exactly like the stairs. What am I doing here?

Where is the way out? Eyeing the cockroaches smashed

against the wall, why am I scrubbing these floors,

working like a man possessed

working this basement floor?

Jaime Manrique Ardila