Street of Serpents



A current of arms and backs
directs us
under fans,
pipes,
enormous spectacles
hung in the middle of the street;
unique testament of
a disappeared race of giants.

Seated at the edge of chairs
as if they were to give a start
and begin to dance,
the customers in the cafes
applaud the activity of the waiters,
while the shoeshine men polish shoes,
where you can read
the announcement of Sunday’s bullfight.

With his figurehead faces,
the Cuban arranges the occurrences of the bowsprit,
the landowners enter
into shops selling drinks,
provoking arguments
as if they were aiming to commit murder;
and leaning on the counters,
that simulate barriers,
they toast the throng
a stuffed bull
head sticking out of the wall.

Held tightly in their capes, like bullfighters,
the priests enter the hair salons
for a shave in four-hundred mirrors at a time,
and when they go out in the street
they wear a three-day beard.

In greenhouses
built in circles,
laziness falls as in no place,
and the partners ingest it
with churros or horchata,
to founder in armchairs
with apathy and a laxity of puppets.

Every two-hundred and forty-seven men,
three-hundred and twelve priests
and two-hundred and ninety-three soldiers,
passes a woman.

Oliverio  Girondo