It is a nightmare to always have on hand
the little flask of cyanide hidden away
in the drawer, in case I had to use it,
given the absurdity of the universe
or of Man, nagging with useless questions
in the order imagined by the demiurge.
Once the blood stopped, I would no longer
have to open and close the worm-eaten
door again nor light the fire,
because the stew of life tastes bad,
nor make the bed, nor anything else.
Freed from hunger,
pleasure and pain, what am I in the end?
No conjectures, now. Metaphorical
in everything but death, the worms will answer
in the shadows.
Now all I know is that inside
I have flares and shaded nooks of memories,
metallurgical fires and toucans in soft,
silent flight that speak to me of a faraway
jungle. But what about the caged bird
of paradise? And what about us all?
Caged as well.
What a painful longing
for an endless sun and a big open space
to live forever!
May the badger shelter us
in the winter and the fat hippopotamus
take us, in the heat, to the rivers where it bathes.