In purgatory I see castles made of bones
seraglios with slaves, Zinc basins wherein
swim women covered with boils, their face
down and limbs in disorder, with necks
as stretched as a goose’s, sextons with their
lips full of drool shining with lusts, big
dead houses wrapped in tinfoil, lacquered
pieces of furniture smitten by remnants
of the dead even the ghosts of the evil
mayoralty hide in the cases of the forgotten
filthy hotel houses, streets, sidewalks,
a cannibal’s parlour at the bottom of a lake
with his woman as nestled as a white animal
abandoned, tranquil peasant houses,
not inhabited villas, the cage of the thieves,
widow’s funereal cereal porridge made of wheat.
Surely I don’t feel bad there, no one smites me
with the club from behind, not even dad
thrashes me with the sour cherry branch
that I broke when I climbed the tree,
nor do the sheep that I grazed take me into account
any longer. I sleep like a child, I move
like an ant, I observe the feasts to be kept
and in the summer I go to the beach.
People love me and I love them, too.
I bear my condition easily there: the diseases,
the insomnias, the nightmares, the rats
of the expansion, the serpentine enthusiasms,
the idea of death, the mole crickets that scratch
my heart, the caterpillars that lay their tiny eggs
in my brain and perforate my sleep at night
the morning in the expansion of the day
and the day that never arrives on time,
that always misses her sunsets. I give up
the tablet of reasonings, the ID card,
the good conduct certificate and the survival
certificate. I swim like the butter in the mist
of a mirror, in front of me the world like a pink
railroad car that swings in the superhuman delight
of the halts. There they are all at a tasty banquet
but bound to a pole and surrounded by flames.
The insomnia has no end.
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