Limitations

On the way into the Metropolis

there stands

the firm lion ;

on the way out —

its copy.

I felt I was meant to conquer the agora :

the asphalt

was worn out

by quadrigas and dogmas.

I felt I was meant to make love :

in slimy bed sheets

I initiated

mildewed gestures.

I felt I was meant to speak :

my truths

returned

shrugging.

At the beginning of each poem

there stands its firm name ;

at the end —

its pseudonym.

Short Ballad with Owls

Three owls would peck last night,

my sightings.

“Oh, they’re almost at the height

of ripeness: fully grown with care (the first said)

by the very worm which blushes the moon’s bed.”

“They’re brimming (another said) with fairy-images :

comets, gulfs, magical pages, pilgrimages

in which there hustle and bustle

tremendous moments rustling for castles.”

“They’re on my liking, too (said the third) :

they’re like the resins you must have heard

of in Arabia, those trees which, instead of fruit,

labour into tears the dreams in their pursuit.”

“Make haste, it’s dawn (the three of them would shout)

break their day as long as sunshine’s but a sprout :

the views of tens of simulacra around will devour

and spoil their juice, making the fruit sour…”

English version by Gabriela PACHIA