Classic Poem

The man first hangs an apron from his thin neck
The man, just as he has no will, has no past
Holding a sharp blade in his hand, he starts to walk
To a corner of the man's wide-opened eyes rushes a line of ants
At each illumination by both sides of his blade the dust on the floor begins to stir
Whatever is going to be cooked
Even if it's a toilet, probably
That object will shriek
Will instantly spurt blood from the window to the sun
What now quietly waits for the man
What gives him the past
That he lacks
A motionless stingray is placed on a board
Its back, mottled, large, slippery
Its tail seems to hang deep into the basement
Beyond it, only the roofs in winter rain
The man quickly rolls the sleeves of his apron
And thrusts the blade in the stingray's raw belly
There's no resistance
In slaughter not to get any response
Not to get one's hands soiled is a terrible thing
But the man bears down little by little and goes on ripping the membranous space
The dark depth with nothing to be spewed out
The stars that sometimes appear and fade
Work done, the man unhooks his hat from the wall
And goes out the door
The part which had lain hidden under the hat
The spot where the hook is, which had been protected from the terror
From there the blood with time's adequate weight and roundness deliberately begins to flow