1
It is not at all strange
she isn't the bride
of real men
of generals
athletes of power
despots
through the ages she follows them
this tearful old maid
in a dreadful hat from the Salvation Army
she reprimands them
she drags out of the junkroom
a portrait of Socrates
a little cross molded from bread
old words
while marvelous life reverberates all around
ruddy as a slaughterhouse at dawn
she could almost be buried
in a silver casket
of innocent souvenirs
she becomes smaller and smaller
like a hair in the throat
like a buzzing in the ear
2
my God
if she was a little younger
a little prettier
kept up with the spirit of the times
swayed her hips
to the rhythm of popular music
maybe then she would be loved
by real men
generals athletes of power despots
if she took care of herself
looked presentable
like Liz Taylor
or the Goddess of Victory
but an odor of mothballs
wafts from her
she compresses her lips
repeats a greatNo
unbearable in her stubbornness
ridiculous as a scarecrow
as the dream of an anarchist
as the lives of the saints