A Man

A man may read in one hour

what took me three whole years to complete

greedily, he risks but an inflammation

of the respiratory system from cosmic dust

 

he’s sitting comfortably legs crossed

on a vast terrace by the sea

I am all by myself face to face with the waves

injecting pure twilight in my veins

 

the man is reading and digesting

(since he’s got plenty of room under his skin

otherwise he wouldn’t have taken up reading)

while I who wrote have been pathetically

breathing my share from my oxygen mask

 

should he be disgusted with my kiss

he’ll be able to renew his cheek

with a razor blade in the morning

 

on the other hand I who wrote

who was temporarily blinded

have been begging for some moist cloth for days

to soothe up my scorched eyelids.

 

Poetry

For the hypocrites poetry is an ice cube

nevertheless a solid object

(although ultimately unreliable)

which gives chills down the spine

 

with inbred knowledge they fish for it

in the turbid water glass — precisely like the small ice tongs —

then place it on their plates

unostentatious and unique in all its splendour

 

all the same in order to meet it

I have to rummage with my blind hands

in my blood’s sweated pantry

unaware that I might strangle it in the darkness

 

day by day I peer like a photographer

through the sleeve of my deceased father

where the ants have been swarming for seven years

awaiting to imprint his image on my soul

 

feeling sorry for myself

at times I am bound to pull its ears

as if it were a pupil hiding in fear of punishment

or some prey

 

yet the cruelty and the risk do not disgrace me

they fill me with some sort of love cleverness instead

it’s no wonder : I could be its tailor

who sews its garments even if blindfolded.

 

English version by Gabriela PACHIA