Leading a goat to pasture like playing with a toy
One day the pigeons decided to leave
and migrated with their vexation
and their plumey pantomime
Mother, I recall, complained of the incident with the goat dung.
May be you cannot comprehend
cutting a gamecock's crest, sharpening its spurs,
setting the stools instead of the table
I believed the world could fill up with light
as father filled with sunlight the mysteries of an egg.
We had generations of cats:
mutinous cats, maidenly cats,
eyes for the nights of a sincere master.
May be you cannot comprehend
the dogs and their tongues beamish with the splinters of bones,
their companion tails
enthusiastically stirring the last rusted scraps
from so much sea wind keeping watch.
May be you cannot comprehend
why all these fleas
now invade and wage war,
and our house, like the century,
is falling to pieces.