I’m the pounding hammer
who forms a few unnatural
flowers instead of swords and
I’m the tamer gypsy who makes
circles, shadows, griffins and
spells out of fire, some royal
crowns, ghosts, fairies, mermaids
for ships, for palaces that don’t
exist anymore useless, unwanted
and peculiar, sometimes missing
the face, the body and always
missing a name; and what angers
the people who sleep with their
eyes open and all that passersby
expel and all that root in this land
and all that love never woke up
and all that never found any fans.
And I’m the hammering man
who surprises, startles and still
keeps going since all easy work
suited another craftsman though
my breath blows onto my work
something barbarous and new
harder than the hardest granite
and when one expects in his
hands from my hands a creation
steady, motionless and hard
I unwillingly bring to him a soft
soul, a sun ray or a wave’s froth.
