You have to bring the bread home
that's why you wake up early
to go to work
to build other people's walls
walls that will never see you sleep
neither give birth nor sit with a mate on the edge
of a table,
you have to wait in a designated corner
to the foreman what happens to you
to search with the Dodge of the eighties
where improbably seven more men travel
There are a total of eight masons pulling the sky,
It's early and a moon bites them
mirror and leaves on the ceiling
an icy hand,
they have to take the bread home for that
they have plaster hands
and in the neck of the heart a crumb.
Oh, beloved and beautiful mason,
I know you grope your pocket for the weed
and water biscuits,
and you don't know if it's enough for the wings
of chicken
which they will roast later.
For you poetry is expensive
more expensive than bread
but I don't know if you know that in your ancient hands
that in each callus there is a syllable of
human beauty.
Your back, beautiful bricklayer, is poetry.
It's mad to know that life sometimes
he doesn't know how to stop
to read in your pupils
the poems that your blood,
and the blood of your brothers,
get up every day
in each brick.
Wall to wall.