translated by Will Kirkland
The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
1. Cogida and death
At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.