These beings have no
discretion at all,
they tell what the moon did, they publish
a sketch of their naked beloved, or they
beat the name and surname of the bird
or cricket that lies behind a post
a faun's nap, indiscreet
advantaged in the art of deception, they
leave no puppet without a ventriloquist or balcony
without light, these beings walk through public
spaces, they enter and leave ministries,
they pay their ticket, they enter confectioneries,
they are recognized by their evasive look
and conventional dishevelment, if one
approaches without making noise one hears quietly
but surely the raw toad of hunger
jumping between their guts. They are a kind of brotherhood, they try to
hide, they make crosses and signs
when the police pass by, they wink as if
they were playing mus, they hide their heads like an
ostrich in the coffee when the woman they called
wounded comes into the bar, they fall asleep standing up, they urinate in the
corners, they are capable of changing God's
name to gain sympathy.
You recognize them because they smell like carnations,
which are the flower of death, they don't pay the rent
and when their time comes
they make the Lady wait, scythe in hand,
because they say, "They demand!" that they be given
five minutes because they woke up inspired.