Pancakes

      My good old friend Raphael was standing enigmatically

in front of the window flooded by the sea’s reflection and

the old lost things, “Raphael don’t bother yourself with

the beyond, let it be” I said to him as I was recuperating

from a long illness and I had such strange thoughts: to

extol a star, to love humanity or to become successful as

a poet of short tombstone verses. Until night came, time

when the street boys lick their lips under the full moon

that reminds them of auntie Thecla’s pancakes in the asylum

and the sea infiltrates God’s secrets because after each

difficult day a night comes no one knows how to spend.  

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Blood

Most people don’t understand

whether the sun rises

from behind the mountain or

is shot out of the pistol’s barrel

it always burns you.

For this so many of our dreams

remained unrealized

inexplicably happiness was laid

in the display window

of the department store and

loneliness was again eulogized

in churches, while as the years went by

him, the one with the severed arm,

kept on other people’s discolored

walls, truth always decorates

the cement, one word written

with fiery red letters:

blood, blood, blood.