At The Market

Dressed up in flowers and in crates
The ancient market opened up its gates.

The women here are fat as barrels,
Their shawls, breathtakingly beautiful,
The pickles swim diligently
In water, like giants.
Fish flash like rapiers,
Their small eyes timid,
But when cut with a knife
They curl up like snakes.
And by the power of the ax the meat
Gapes like a red hole,
The sausages, like bloody bowels
Swim in the coarse brazier,
And a bearish dog follows their scent
Holding its lean nose in the air,
Its jaws are open like a door,
Its head dish-shaped
And its legs pace precisely,
Bending slowly in the middle.
But what's this? With a sorry look
It stops short,
And tears, just like grapes,
Fly from his eyes into the air.

The cripples have lined up.
One plays guitar.
The stump of his leg, brother of his losses,
Is his breadwinner at the market.
And on that stump the peg
Is like a wooden bottle.

Another shows us his arm stalk.
He waves it, bragging,
The freak, he dislocated his finger,
And like a mole it squealed,
The bony crossroads crunched,
His face contorted to thimble size.

A third one, twisting his mustache,
Gazes like a belligerent hero
Around him during market hours
Meaty flies buzz in swarms.
He travels in a bucket on wheels,
A firm rudder hidden in his mouth,
His arms are drying up in a grave somewhere,
His legs are sleeping in some river.
All that's left to this hero
Is a gut crowned with a head
A mouth large as a lever
To guide the merry rudder.

There, an old woman with a steady gaze
Sits on a lonely stool,
A book of magic bumps
(Dear sister of her fingers)
Singing of petty bureaucrats,
The woman's quick with her fingers.

And all around-scales, like Magellans,
Tatter of butter, the grease of love,
The freaks, like idols,
In thick and prudent blood
The screech of a praying guitar,
And caps full, like tiaras,
Of shining copper. It's not long
Until that time when, in the dangerous burrow
He and she-he, drunk, red
From the chill, singing and wine,
Armless, swollen, and she-
The blind witch-will sweetly dance
The lovely goat-step
Until the floor boards crack
And sparks fly from under their feet!

And the lamp will howl like a badger.