From: Symphony
The Last Will Be First
The cat jumped onto the table,
ate the bread and licked the tablecloth.
Then we sat down at the table
and ate the cat.
My Captain
The poisonous cloud
is perfume, my Captain.
The blood-caked bodies on the barbed wire
are roses, my Captain.
And the scattered bones
are flower stalks, my Captain,
green plants, my Captain.
I see everything quite clearly, my Captain...
And what dazzles like the blow from a gun butt
(excuse me, my Captain)
Is it hoarfrost?
Streetlights?
Yes!
Mere decoration, my Captain.
I Don't like These Verses
When I walk the streets
of the U.S.A.
and see the children,
I extend my hands towards them,
I hug them if I can,
and then,
sadly, I walk away.
One day,
when they are bigger,
they will be sent to my country
and there,
to my sons,
they will bring death.
Maybe
they will shoot me
while I am reading this poem.
They also smile back at me
and, without knowing anything about invasions,
keep running and playing.
Theory of Shoes
Excuse me. I'm sorry,
I don't want to disturb anyone.
Forget about me for a moment.
I want to make way for more essential things.
It happens, for instance,
that I have always been impressed by shoes:
like olives they are so vain,
and as arrogant as a pharmacy;
and even though I don't really agree
sometimes it seems to me
they are the only things of value strolling down the street.
They have as much personality as a furniture store;
they go so many places,
ignoring too many things along the way;
it terrifies me not to know what they are thinking.
Their lives are so interesting!
Some other day
when I have more paper
I will reappear on another page
and speak to you
about the theory of the shoelaces.
Thank you very much.
While You Were Sleeping
When I asked for the night
someone went out running and screamed.
I was afraid,
I couldn't find your eyes:
everything was covered with dry leaves.
I shouted: "Bring me the obscurity!"
and after the last firefly
fell executed by a shoe,
I saw only the smoke hanging from a wire
looking at the emptiness with astonishment.
A winged apple flew by
and the clandestine air, fugitive,
imitating the drizzle, caressed me
and, singing, cautiously brought me to
your eyes that were sleeping beside me.
The Winter Where I live
Canada is a fragile cliff
where the snow twists up the edge of its foam,
like a climbing vine sculpting its flour
over the goodness of the great land.
All the chlorophyll, with its green staircase,
like an emerald that remains at a distance,
and the ivory arriving with its revolving teeth
to direct the confidential formation of the day.
The light elevates my smile.
I love the solitude of this land,
its silence of a yellow cathedral
storing in its broken wintry throat
an elastic drum of stone and dust;
it adds to my origin of clay
the peace that, for a moment, I had overlooked.
I am free within its soft white poncho,
and I dream of its horizon that threshes itself,
forgetting the frontier that dangles in the rain.
