We will squeeze a heart of truth:
the wind will pick up over the ports
and the faded fishing boats
they will beat their rusty buttocks
against the excited sleepers of the ocean.

Only then, my little bird,
we will eat hippopotamus meat
and we will pull the lettuce from the ground
to bites,
and bites we will also drink the wine
of oranges and onion nectar,
We'll squeeze a real heart

All the satellites will fly from the sky.
The moon will melt over the ministries
on the shoulders of the cities
and the wet zebra peeking out from behind
of each blind eye of a cosmic crotch
will buzz your name
stuck to the blue back of my saliva.

The bird that God gave us will sing.
Like a clay bugle will sound the
real heart.
So real. So real. So real.