The Wheel of the Starving
(For Spanish translation click here)

I come out steaming from between my own teeth,

screaming, moaning

pulling my pants down . . .

My stomach and my blood and guts despicably,

the misery plucks me from between my own teeth,

picked up with a toothpick by my own shirt cuff.

Isn’t there for me

a bench to sit on?

Not even that bench on which the new mother stumbles to sit,

mother of the lamb, the cause, the root?

Is that one ready for me now?

The one which stumbled looming through my soul!

At least

the chalky or evil one (sea of humility),

or the one with no more use, not even to be thrown

against a man,

let me just have that one now.

At least the one that can be found alone and pierced in an insult,

let me just have that one now.

At least the crowned and twisted one, in which but once

the echo of the walk of a righteous conscience,

or at least that other one, tossed in a noble curve,

which drops by itself,

showing essence of its innards,

let me just have that one now.

Is there not one piece of bread for me either?

I shall no longer be what I must always be,

but give me

a stone to sit on,

but give me,

please, a piece of bread to sit on,

but give me,

in simple words,

something, at least, to drink, to eat, to live, to rest upon,

then I will leave . . .

It found a weird shape, my shirt is shattered

and grimy

and I have nothing, this is frightful.