(Dedicated to “Aunt” Sonia)
Salvador; February, 23th 2006 (01h38 AM)
The poet is a lonely werewolf
Who roves through desert prairies
In the night of storms and thunderbolts.
His claws devour the land’s guts,
His verses are his canine hunger,
His poetry, the anguish for glory.
He constructs gradually his books,
Step by step, satisfying his guts,
While the glory escapes him, like Tantalus.
He roves, lonely like a coyote,
Through the gray prairies,
Looking for a resting place.
His lacerated body wants to sleep.
Dead, his arms desire the end.
But his soul rules: go on and on!
Poor poet! Poor lonely werewolf
Who keeps walking in the darkness.
His curse, however, is humankind redemption.
(thanks to my dear teacher, Misses Adelaide, in the correction)