All the lips pass by. Tedium
blunts in a crumple once more.
The hoarding ticker-seller passes by, perhaps
nominal, like God,
amid tantalising loaves, the human
impotence of love.

    I look at this ragged man. And he would
give us courage;
but that luck he shares
in his hands, crying out loud,
like a cruel bird, will end up
where this bohemian god
neither knows nor wants.

    And I say on this tepid Friday that walks
burdened under the sun:
why should the will of God
be dressed as a lottery ticket-seller!
 
 
 
 

Translated by Michael Smith and Valentino Gianuzzi