The wind is tired; let it rest
the repertoire of morning birds on the eucalyptus branches
Let the first boat that sinks in the sea be whipped
those who fear the first storm; let everyone with evil in them capsize
The clouds are tearful; let all the sorrow in the hidden corners of life disperse
I have five minutes to light my cigarette
My beloved, the warm exile; now she has arrived
brought with her hands from the blue butterfly
the doubled-over harbinger of spring months
I’m badly drenched; let the sun rise on the scaffold,
let it speak to the planets without satellites
to the sleepless moon nights
The earthen roofs have collapsed; Tea vapors
silenced to the mountains fermented with poetry,
no, the empty world was inflated in the cheeks of the poor people
Let all the cycles that torment the people be thrown into the abyss
let the hesitations of creation in my genes not be repeated again
let them choose color from colors, death from deaths
life from lives that steal life
The wind blew mournfully after resting with its instrument
the morning birds grew tired of turning the pages of the repertoire
How many centuries remain until my cigarette goes out, oh lungs?
Artwork by: Arnold Topp
