The house is a wound,
the humanity carried
to the burial of the dead.
The curtains drawn apart
and the feeling of an arrow in the flesh,
which we mistake
for the warm tenderness of the shower,
love that today we have assured.
And then to pills
sweet, fresh, in season,
so as to be healthy.
But those we embrace are one
and those who embrace us are another.
The sky, stray cat on the roof,
sits in no lap.
Rather take the spade,
scrape the earth to run towards life,
some potatoes, some turnips, some cabbages.
Burn the hands and spit on them,
as if that isn’t
what is done to us day after day.
(Unpublished)
Translated by Rui Parada