Poems for a Sunday in February

THE PRECIOUS TRANSLATOR

The messenger of things that pass away.

And they do not pass away.

The herald and messenger of vanity

How lewdly and falsely you condemn

In your works

Which accumulate

In rogues and attics

From your overflowing library

You have been banished

To solitude

And to the sinister and dangerous

The consolation of wine

You, always motionless

In the attic

Everything returns (resurrection)

And it goes out and spreads

With the voices of a tyrant

Blush, farts (intestinal) and threats

Satan's caresses

But where are you going?

Who do you think you are?

-Well, let's go home.

To the shelter, your ybeshitse

Wait until

Let the bombing pass.

Serving the mass to the god Bacchus

Singing him lullabies

And Ataruxos from the Basque Country

You're a good dragoman.