The shrine of a woman whose hair blazes in henna
soars overhead in an undertone
these violet autumn days inflict their madness
driving you out of your senses and books
tumors, dead ants
chills and shivers cover me
curiosity
is the genesis of a revolutionary
and above me in an undertone fly
cancer, begonia, death.
White gauze behind the windowpane
and eyes plucked out
real human eyes heavy like rocks
a mother endures all the agony
and the dust stirred up by her corpse,
you warden of anguish, you autumn days.
Under the rain of the rebel leader
I clobber my own scorched and paltry beauty
Saturday afternoons pierce like a cramp
my hope
is a ferocious animal
which keeps toppling the banknotes and mass meetings
and chokes the houses we live in
with the aroma of cinnamon and with weariness,
curiosity
is the genesis of a revolutionary
in the bazaars some coppersmiths wash
and women who knead dough are dragged with clangs
in their mortars they pound their stubborn streak
and their vile hopes too.
I cannot love a girl secretly
a thousand curiosities prick me all over
those gloomy smells of incense our mothers
craving food in pregnancy must eat dirt
unite the ropes of my heart against the moon
my heavenly pain throbs in my wrists
sawdust convulsing sawdust
sawdust of the sledge that beats on my temples.
