LITTLE WORLD TREATY

The world is made up of open windows
of live tadpoles that sing overnight,
of rats and firs, of raw grasshoppers
and a thousand other species of animals.

The world we live in is something I don't understand:
I do not understand that there is a man sitting in that door
nor that there are fish inside the rivers,
the fish that are caught in the fishmongers
(the breads that are eaten in bakeries),
nor that there is a dumb man sitting on that wall.

Anyone understand the world sitting at that door
anyone reflects on the abstract world,
the terrifying world composed of animals,
of ills that do not heal
and people who do not last;
anyone understands the world that I never understand.

Anyone gets up happy and walks around,
anyone who has no senses in the forehead
get up or sit
contemplating this world sitting on that door.

The world is made up, made up of things,
of books and roses
and a thousand other species of animals.
Of paths and lambs,
of toads and paths,
of open windows the world is made up.

But anyone understands the office world
where all the papers in the world are arranged
and the passport for the bitter country is made
from where no one returns.