Sad Wine (Vino triste)
The hard thing is to sit without being noticed,
everything else then comes naturally. Three sips
and the desire to think alone is back.
A distant buzz in the background opens wide
and everything vanishes. It becomes a miracle
to be born and to look at the glass. Work
(the lonely man can't not think of work)
is again the old fate that it's good to suffer
to be able to think. Then the eyes, aching,
stare blankly at nothing, as if blind.
If this man gets up and goes home to sleep,
he'll be like a blind man who has lost his way. Anybody
could come out of nowhere and brutally beat him.
A woman, beautiful and young, could appear
and lie in the street under another man, moaning
like a woman had moaned with him before.
But this man doesn't see. He goes home to sleep
and life is nothing but a buzzing silence.
You'd find a wasted body undressing this man,
and patches of rough hair, here and there. Who'd say
that life once burned in this man's
lukewarm veins? Nobody would believe
that a woman once caressed
this body, kissed this body, that shakes,
and wet it with tears, now that the man,
who came home to sleep, can't sleep, only moan.
- The end -