the soul of the brothel

The old house,
keeps secrets open,
from the carved wood,
from your entrance door,
to the ruined bower,
who lives in your yard.
Your tiles still,
they still feel the steps,
of the loyal customers,
that previously circulated them,
and if you get a little closer,
you will feel in its walls,
how the whispers escape,
of those that carried on his skin,
the elixir of the lucky ones.
You still smell the sexual perfume,
that attracted the night,
and shared in every encounter,
with the white silk sheets.
The laughter still comes down from the ceiling,
and the perfect orgasms,
soaked in a sweet sweat,
that the damsels pretended.
The old house,
breathe its fiery intimacy,
his music keeps playing,
from the destroyed grand piano,
and although decades ago,
that seems abandoned,
its doors reopens,
to the soul of some gentleman,
that goes in search of company.