Poets

It is said they come from Central Europe. I see them coming from the direction of Grijó, in a weary caravan.

Back then our town would be visited by prostitutes - our only recourse,

Not all insects will make it to November. In December hardly any wings will be seen attempting their resigned, late-season flaps that go nowhere, though the curtains may yet harbor some survivor less exposed to the weather. And January will retain almost no memory of the tiny life deposited somewhere by diligent females and tenaciously resistant to the calendar. I, meanwhile, will have resisted the cold and perhaps scoffed at the transitory death of so many humble bodies gone downriver. But when May finally beats its drum or blows its horn, the shriveled wings will unwrinkle, the sky will be small, the flowers scarce. And the vile insects will triumph over the ice and over me, my afflictions. What's the difference between sixty years and one year? What difference between a week and one day? Unless it's that no insect suffers the agony of winter, whereas I fiddle with these words of exorcism, these laborious dialectics, and I don't hide my face, since I can't hide my face, from the vicious countenance of the long harsh winter that will seize me by way of the insects.