Torturing The Slave
Slave, will your breath halt?
Will the Slavs destroy the geography of their cabbage?
In the throat of a she-deer lies a lacquer globe
that my mother had eaten.
On it a picture of Jerusalem, on it only.
Did you make the grass grow?
Tie threads on bombshells?
Make gold out of fireclay?
My blotting paper lies in a crystal moor
and it is your fault, slave!
Just look at my optical gargantua.
Knives, like the bubbling water of occult races,
are uniting with the gauze on my finger.
What are you waiting for?
Why don’t you stop the weather just
like highlanders used to in olden times?
They cut down everything obstructing the wind,
snapped brambles and chopped them up.
Rolled oak trees down.
Timber-slides came later,
after gravitation had won.
You are crying, son, because of being soaked,
but your calendar is not in the spirit of the Maya.
Your hips seem to be stolen from
my mountains in Crete and when
barbarians will stamp on them with their boots
you’ll leave the revolving door
so white-hot from the solitude
of the she-deer, that stags will dash into
the forest, already smelling of other burned
stags, and sing the last pious accord of their