HANDGUN Poem by Rui Lage
HANDGUN
Thanks for the memento, granddad:
you left me your handgun.
The trigger's bent,
the barrel's rusty,
and the job, with bullets of this caliber,
isn't a sure thing
(you didn't have to buy it from the gypsy
you used to drink with),
but no child will be able to spoil
the pessimism of this poem,
or arrive in time to avert its conclusion
- laughing, for instance, on the playground at school.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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3/11/2026 6:19:58 AM # 1.0.0
