Classic Poem

Like a rose, a scar
fragrant behind his earlobe —
Is it forbidden
to see such a man?
A man one can face without unfolding one's arms
under splendid invitation lamps —
Is it forbidden
to see such a man?
Like a steeple in the evening glow
anger shines on his forehead.
In his eyes, turned toward
a crossroads in the distance,
a typhoon seems to be gently
hesitating.
When he passes in his boots
silence spreads through the town,
in a far-off basement
gamblers hush their hands.
There should be one or two boulevards
unable to forget
the seriousness of his back that turned away
just before pursuit.
Shoulders like a balance
that incline gently toward pain
and a steep chest
that repulses any future
are the signs of his sincerity
one recognizes wherever one comes across them.
Among the enemies he made enemies
and striding over a whip
he would not turn on us, to the end.
Above all, on the day of conclusion,
over the road
where sunflowers higher than towers
bloom like anger,
he will come
and effortlessly open
our folded arms
more stubborn than bolts
and press
on our chests
that odd hot fire.