My son in his thirties
I dreamed that I gave birth to a son in his thirties
A tall blond man
He went through all the plays in the nearby theater with me
He believed, like me, that poetry can save us a little more
He was telling me how happy he is
I held his hand and said I believe
How he cares about totally irrelevant stuff,
like most of the human race.
Hearts of girls he will take each day
The jacket he saw in passing, books to buy,
but he doesn’t have enough money yet.
I listened to him attentively
As men with a deep voice are listened to
While reciting poetry by the fire
I woke up
The announcer was announcing on the radio
Several new world disasters
I touched my stomach
And he reciprocated.
He was a revolutionary man
He waved from the top of the frenzied village
I invented a woman who flies
I see her every night
I make her womb out of wet clay
And a couple of kisses.
I breathe into her the joyful rain
Then, when it flies away, I shout with all my might
That I love her
Nothing ever came out of it
Except my rust.
What are you missing today?
Legs that will carry you
Although the bones remain inside
You will leave all other phenomena
Trapped on the shelves
What are you missing today, when you don’t have time to think
About the soul, happiness, aspirations, not even about suffering
Like recycled material, you smell of use value
A factory woman with an apron over her swollen, congenital stomach
Adds colorful blocks to the leather boots of the A series
Bare-handed and barefoot rows across the sea.
Excellent pieces of writing that touches the heart of the readers.