Automatic doors that moo
as if an old woman were
blowing her nose,
what is Man doing here
in these cities that have erased with their
weight the cosmic monotony of the pampas,
wasting his scrawny skeleton
in procuring everything that the shop windows
display as trophies
to the industrious, buses transporting
through the grey arteries of the city
whole families of bustling calves
that will fill the cinemas and hamburger joints
with war cries, women tattooed to
the ends of the earth, men with bull-like pectorals, a police patrol that
confirms that the great shopping centre is not
infected by filthy children and old people who
stretch out their hands in vain seeking the pity
of the century. What is Man doing here?
I will come with picks and shovels, I will invite my
human brothers to drill the
asphalt, to hit and hit hard the stone face,
the concrete child of the industrial revolution,
to hit until I see the green roots of nature rise avengingly,
until we unearth alive the trees
that civilization buried under the earth.