to Ezra Pound, the breeze whistle in the ragged black flag,
whom noboby ever managed to make insane
Jesus, I am a clown
I came to try to entertain you in a square
Where you passed by.
I'm a poor, sad clown,
Who failed in everything,
And even when I tried to calm down, not to kill myself,
My bosom began to ruin.
Everything is so serious and grave,
So grave and solemn,
Justice, Reason, Respect,
That I forgot how to sing.
But you have mercy on me,
Me, who never did it, nor even as clown,
Despite being here, to amuse you.
As the countryboys of my own,
Who throw everything away
And go whistling through the fields
After they were told what to do:
"You´ll never be anything
That´s not the way to do it"
And when they stumble, not even drunk
Because they do not know how to drink, neither
How to make love...
They whistle in disaccord
With a twisted mouth
Over a hurl raising from the entrails,
As a gust of blood to the air.
There they go, banned from the village,
Turning their back on their back,
Stumbling on the ridges
And raising the bullshit in whirls,
Which falls on their faces again,
Finally reversing them to the ground, with tears and dew
In the brooks,
Which mouth into their laughter and tears.
I won't make you laugh Jesus
'Cause you're in haste.
I only wanted to amuse you,
Relieve you from that fatal Destiny,
Since I think you´re God
And I didn´t want to pass on Earth
Without washing your feet
With the wigh of my pantomines.
I look into my open-ended pockets,
And i find no gift to offer.
Please get me rid
Of Seriousness, Gravity and competence,
Dry as expensive whores .
I know you came for us,
The dumb and the lame,
The blind and the catapletic,
The queer who, at least,
Die in their equal's arms
In tenderness and human touch.
You came for the pathetic entertainers,
Out of time and fashion
Who still try to raise their audiences of three or four.
The imitations of Elvis
The James Dean's of saturday night,
On the wrong lane
Of an obscure highway.
Jesus, look to my pantomine,
Look to my appalling pantomine.
As the Publican, I do not even have a tree to climb.
On the ground dust I crawl to you,
The dust of Ezra Pound,
Made of Seas and Horses,
Of Statues and ruins,
Of boats and facades,
Of Atlantics and indigo Hopes
Of bosoms open to the starry sky.
As this massive, rough men, in front of me,
Arguing democracy in the Inn,
Which will never take them as customers.
Blessed be Love for the others,
The Love of Francis, humble and tiny,
Voiceless and invisible.
Forgive this cheap swindler,
This jester in a fair,
By means of which I try to swindle your senses
Just to relieve Pain, and Hurt and Panick,
Over this square you cross in haste.
If you want I can dance, and you dance too.
Oh, let it be,
I dance for you,
As a scarecrow
Colourfol in the wind,
With sparrow's nests behind its straw hears,
I shiver and rattle.
In the field of losers, I preside ragged,
Out of the dew I make diamonds and rubis
Which roll down from the universe,
And turn into butterflies
Flying to the stars above.
The stars which are the grains of sand
Under your feet
Over this square
Where you pass in haste.
I jump as the clown of times
And my offer to your feet
As flowers of a late garden,
Was careless laughter.