Ah, those were the long days when the people ran

          in the streets;

the uprising threw a ladder like a prayer over the city;

the days were like a populace of candles scattered

on the asphalt and we who survived all this had

nothing left but matches only for our cigarettes.

I remember that poor man at the corner; he held

           a cuspidor over his face

so he could pass as guileless and the sleepwalkers

step at the edge of the roof and don’t fall since

someone else keeps the count like trustworthy

           birds that

will kill us easier. 

Oh God, there are all so uncertain like a stone with

          no mystery or

like the one who rediscovers his lost money in

the wasted time. Travellers bring some flowers

to the hasty funerals in train stations, while

beggars run for a few coins behind ballooned


Oh, if I could have my own telephone booth or

cleaner false teeth perhaps many killings could have

            been avoided

or perhaps they would had been noticed before

they took place. Everything else will remain unknown

like a sudden ring of the bell from someone who has

            already gone away;

a light smell that vanished before you could remember

some steam from your childhood chamomile

that many natural disasters haven’t dispersed yet.

Oh, if I had the power, I could make a hand for each

          street beggar

or easy puzzles for the exhausted;

I could create a talkative cemetery that each evening

           would narrate old stories to us

or I’d put the bed-sheets out to air like in a shipwreck.

           Therefore I am crossed out

like the miracle that makes life more uncertain.