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I see the green gold, with
its wheat-spike of pain
multiplying its fruit of bread and foam;
dressed with slowness, it brings whistling,
up to the naked lineage of the spoon,
gunpowder, crushed glass and a long scream.
Man dies of hunger at the
harvest:
for his configuration and his mouth
there is not a space:
for him there is a dream written in the walls
and a monument that threatens his liberty.
His grave is waiting, and
he bleeds.
He parades with his confused
history of smoke,
and, raking the eyelids of the morning,
he searches in the battle of the cereal
for the crowd of his everlasting dawning.
But the night arrives with
its knife
and tangles with the sweat that amputates the rain,
until, in the trim landscape, man is diffused,
his flower, mortally spread.
Man labours, and then falls
dead. |
