The joy I feel
It is not that of the human who drinks
calm the water
of the gentle stream,
at my sides my brothers
they are eating found grapes
in communal waste bins
They walk around with Christs hanging from their necks
and my joy is not for that reason that of the human
that caresses the blue face of the day.
It is a joy of stone or silence.
A contemplation of the silver cricket of the moon
swinging at the executioner's window
that will fall sooner or later.
How all tyrants fell.
Because nothing ultimately escapes joy
of the calm water of the stream,
of the blue razor of the moon.