My artificial arm,carelessly tossed on some couch,can laugh like an aimless shoe,destroyed,thrown to nights and rainin what was once my yard.I understand its ironyand have thoughtof old almanacs,of dark towels,of whiffs of incensewhen nunspass beneath my sweltry window.…You see my artificial arm understands—it has that supreme ability to laughwhen it thinks of the priest and the old womenthat raise their rage and destroy pulpitsif they see too few sinners.
Domingo sin iglesia
Mi brazo artificial,echado sin reparos sobre un mueble,puede reír igual que un zapato sin rumbos,destruido,tirado a lluvia y nochesen el patio de entonces.Comprendo su ironíay he pensadoen viejos almanaques,en toallas obscuras,en vapores de inciensocuando monjaspasan bajo el calor de mi ventana.…Y es que mi brazo artificial comprende—tiene ese don supremo de reírsecuando piensa en el cura y las señoras viejasque alzan su rabia y destrozan púlpitoscuando ven pocos pecadores.