Landscape of a Pissing Multitude
The meo themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The womeo themselves:
they were expeg the death of a boy on a Japanese ser.
They all kept to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a retly flatteoad,
beh sileh a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the yons that resist
the violent atta the moon.
The boy on the ser was g as were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and e radios were still g.
It doesnt matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the
arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
Its useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silehat has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because eveiny ba of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese ser,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The tryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the o liners!
Facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs oerraces.
Everything is shatter iepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to jourhrough the eyes of idiots,
open try where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that untrollable light will arrive
thten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will e those crowds still able to piss around a moan
or on the crystals in which eaimitable wave is uood.
Federico García Lorca