The dead nailed to the walls, next to the advertisements
of state bonds; the dead propped on the pavements,
on the wooden platforms of the notables, with flags, with helmets,
cardboard masks.
The dead
have nowhere to hide anymore, they can't command
their dry bones (negotiable deaths, boxes
lifted by winches, yellow paper with pins). The dead
are more endangered.
And he, prudent, with his umbrella,
walking high on the electric wires, a tightrope walker
above the parade, with a handkerchief tied over his eyes,
as the first raindrops began to fall.
Then the storm burst.
The trumpeters were shouting to the women to wring the flags dry,
but they had locked themselves in the basements and had swallowed
their keys.
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论