BIOGRAPHY OF A SCORPION EATER
If only music came back like the wind,
the step it took to flee a last shuffle
beside the ornaments of spring.
There is nothing being gained by sleep.
I hop on a bus and wake on the next street.
If only music was understood in a time of
peace.
If I could slow it down, I would.
Take the accused passion, turn it into
strings of beads.
There is a vicinity, a jar of apple juice,
a crying sound inside the blouse
of the woman who approaches.
If it was love, it would be free.
If the fashion of hair was a song
composed over green rocks of moss.
There is a fiber, a kneeling down, a car
signaling the rebellion is about to begin.
When the vehicle moves, the flags wave.
When the country invades itself, torments
dance on the stage of belief.
If one was the feather of love, I would
paint again.
If the second is my collar turned against
the cold,
I would be there before the monkey in the
painting starts to grin.
