Every day at dusk,

from among the slaves,

and with another link added to the length of my chain

(so long already!)

when I return to my dark kitchen,

after lighting the gas lamp

and putting on my slippers,

completely given over to the pleasure of suffering,

I eagerly start to search

the garbage of memory,

and in the midst

of so much filth and grime,

so much plastic,

so much rusty metal rubble,

there you are, persistent,

the only one still alive,

the one and only flower undevoured

by the insatiable wild boar of my guts.

And how to be still

in the face of so much beauty.

How to hold the tears

when all the sunflowers

turn to you one by one,

when the crickets repeat your name over and over,


your alluring name,

which so many mornings cleared

and caressed my throat.

How can I keep from crying,

I who used to have for breakfast

the honey

of your first kiss?

I who now have

but a handful of flies

to put in my mouth?

I who loved you

to the point of hating myself.


(c) Xabier Montoia