My love, you disconcert me:

I consider the poets my brothers

and you the shopkeepers.


Should I not look

along the shelves

for the hidden poem

of the bag of beans

and the litre of oil

dressed with the blue apron

of the overseas


Tighten the packets of


until they exhale their


the sacks of walnuts

until the rhythms?

To be the little familiar mouse

that  gnaws insidiously

the brothers-in-law merchandise

and look for their cash desk?


I don’t know what to say you.

Perhaps you will answer  my poem

with a chickpea jar.

But in this case

my revenge will be terrible:

I will wait for the next sunset

to cook the most romantic stew

that two lovers had ever eaten

while they see arise,


the moon’s horns.




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