The Chambermaids

The aged chambermaids

bear the colour of ash.

Perhaps it is the cinders of endless cigarettes

they smoke alone in the canteen.

A strange contrast

with the snowy white of the sheets

they spread as they make

the beds of the wealthy.

The chambermaids fade.

They take on an aubergine hue

as their skin hardens

amid countless

ups and downs of elevators.

In damp basements.

Daylight despises them.

Their soaked bones serve as props

for the columns and pergolas

under which, carefree,

the masters of the earth scatter

their filthy money.