Sleeper

A man sleeping in the park
while cars cover him with smoke,
the city walks by him without seeing him,
dogs sniff his bland smell
and go on reluctantly,
the sun and cold go straight past,
his arms embracing the earth that rocks him say nothing,
his feet say nothing, useless extremity of sleep.
A man sleeping on the grass
is an insult to work, to the rush,
to the reputation of banks,
a mockery of obligations,
of statistics, of elevators,
of the shelves in notarys’ offices.
Where can he have gone that is so far
that he has abandoned his body here
and not come back to collect it.
Faithful banner of idleness.
A man sleeping in the park,
so foreign, so stone-like, so beautiful.

Luz Helena Cordero