This time is coming
in which the insipid winter kneads
against the back of Man his greed,
so I wonder where
and above all for what
accumulates umbrella leaves birds
pink afternoons, the lasting kiss on the terrace
tons of petrified cats
on the steps of the churches
mummified dogs and sparrows
where the greedy winter accumulates them
and let's agree
so that.

On the sidewalk of the house there is a tree
a baker made his home there
a perfect circle of clay
the baker knows
he is an exquisite architect
however we never saw him here
I'm afraid to go up and find his body rusty
but I'm more afraid of not finding it
and conjecture that the baker is capable
to forget his home, to abandon him.