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Thirty-two years will come in
bringing the coming century,
thirty-two heroic trumpets,
thirty-two foiled fires,
and the world go on coughing
enveloped in its dream and crime.
So few leaves that are
lacking
to the tree of bitterness
for the hundred years of autumn
that destroyed the foliage:
we watered it with white blood,
with black and yellow blood,
and now it wants a medal
on its sergeant's bosom
the century aged one hundred years
pecking wounded eyes
with its iron tools
and its decorated claws.
The concrete in the street
tells me,
the inbranched bird sings to me,
the jail warns me naming
the good there good and dead,
my kith and kin declare to me,
my untranquil companions,
secretaries of poverty:
these rotten years go on
stalled in the midst of time
like the bones of a beast
that rodents devour
and from the plague come
books written by flies.
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