PUBLIC GARDEN
It’s nice here — pleasant breeze, indifferent
as if it doesn’t know any of us, as if it’s unknown to us;
we may let it pass through our open fingers or
under our underarms or under our legs
as if we ride an invisible horse or a deer and
this doesn’t make anyone feel humbled since no one
can see us.
I can’t endure the sundown in our neighbourhood,
the streets smell of fried olive oil and dill,
the smell of cheap cologne from the barber shop
comes to me, the barber, in his white outfit, sits outside
his glass door
as if petrified and the swallows still fly
around him with their black scissors — you fear that
they might sever your ear using the mirrors of
the barber shop;
a big razor gleams next to the dirty combs
like an dishonored sword that can’t slaughter anyone;
it can only make the acne on the faces of the young men
bleed.
Libros Libertad 