eviscerate the chest of drawers

It’s the hour of the grave decisions therefore my sweetheart
throw off the small-eyed nacre buttons from the chest of drawers
drop the dozen of lead soldiers into the mass grave
they haven’t been running on my battlefields for quite a while
drop them into the mass grave it’s the hour of the grave decisions
so put the continent of drawers in order like great grandmother
used to do at Eastertide and throw off everything into the fire :
the pink powder beauty boxes and my school certificates
as you can see they haven’t installed me in the world’s amphitheatres
nevertheless since it’s a princely spring day
save and haven my photograph in which
I was scrutinising you from the robust health
reputed footballer

I’m the Letter Y

You’re angry with me about my not being a circus manager

not having gaiters prizes parachutes or diplomas

I’m the letter y in the great epos of the day I’m

a pitiable engineer of souls I tie the tin can by the dog’s

tail I depict a world which simply doesn’t exist

I could have been a mountaineer at least that makes you angry again

the unsparing black rain lashes down on me thistles prick my body on every side

my name is uttered by the voracious ravens you can see them

waiting for me to die you will soon find out I was

a human being until then I fall on my knees in front of you

forgive my being a burden which caused your shedding tears

A Child
A child would walk around with a huge owl on his shoulder
a child would mount his dragon kite and hovering he tweaks the clouds’ ears
a child would aim his arrow at a flying saucer
a child on the roof ridge would stick his tongue out for the sun to dulcify his speech
a child would write with chalk on wooden fences the name of the evening wind’s sweetheart
a child would turn on the transistor radio and lures the lackbrain crows with its songs
a child would vigorously swim crawl over an extremely long underwater stone slab
a child would crush underfoot the brachia of a hairy fish
a child would propose to Little Red Riding Hood
a child would bandage his wound with a butterfly wing

a child would like to grow a moustache so he glues a swallow under his nose
a child wouldn’t study so he would hide in a bombardon
a child would swallow a bobbin a pill a button by mistake
a child would tease the cat torment his grandmother
a child would get some mild twig whips over his bottom
a child would steal three or four American peanuts
a chance child
a child is what I would like to be once again

English version by Gabriela PACHIA