Second Strike
I think of the lamps which will announce tomorrow’s
             dark seasons
or the poor snowman who hasn’t foreseen the snow
or even the gravediggers who clean their pipes on their
             day off;
however you became a child again in the house from
             which they sent you off
then you went and knocked at the door again, “but I
didn’t ask for too much”, you said and
you searched for your killer in the classifieds, then
what could I do with the car when I walk on my own
or with Fate since each success of the others is a personal
             insult to me?
Only, in God’s name, keep quiet; quietness is necessary
             so noisy events may occur
or I avoid myself because who tells me that this man isn’t
the executioner? Yet each evening I too chose my victim,
usually the old woman, to whom I throw all my coins
thus attracting attention and I know where I’m going;
oh my hands, you have never been mine like the words of
             the poet, or
who, deep in pain, hasn’t hidden a useless item as if all
his life depended on it, humble people who, if they didn’t
frighten us we wouldn’t had known that we existed.