The walls I made them run toward
Were the ones they themselves built
To keep me out and my mixed kind.
I swear I could watch these
Lieutenants and colonels drill
Like footsoldiers forever -
But lacking time and owing to their numbers,
dispatch must be efficient.
Those who maintained the ancient order
must benefit first from the new.
The new justice is, they run, I
Shoot them dead, them barefoot through
The cactus spines, me resplendant
In my brocade sedan-chair!
The only peace I will know tonight
Is the balm of the butter
From the old masters' icebox
On my tragically blistered
Trigger finger.
(1976)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Squaring accounts. Ah, such a fine constructed dream of revenge. A blistered trigger finger is a small price to pay! !