Coercive
There, fallen face down; his chin on the soil, his neck
squeezed between the legs of the other, he turns black;
his swollen veins on his temples. Motionless.
One movement, the last spasm? Close your eyes. No, no.
Simply a beautiful tradition. The body relaxes. Little by
little the face smiles, as if someone gazes at the sea through
the window (truly, somewhat narrow) or like a modest,
severed head — it sets its rhythm properly; yes, yes, it
smiles. The red knife is on the tray. On both sides two
flowerpots.
And his two canine teeth shine in the sunshine, golden,
elongated, two little spears which guard his corpse
in front of the narrow gate of the ancient, conniving
immortality.
Libros Libertad 