I heard it on the radio:
in ancient times, the pig strolled freely
around the house,
eating man's shit.
It grew fat, had a litter.
The man then killed the pig and ate it.
After dinner, he went to a bush
somewhere behind the house.
The pig´s offspring knew the smell,
went to the bush to eat.
And so on.
Then it turned out that history was a spiral.
Returning to the roots,
the pig took along
many finer tools
and more articulate attitudes.
Translated by the author and Mike Horwood
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.