^{translated by Tess O’Dwyer}

Poetry of a shark with two whales and a scarecrow. Poetry of a crab and a
turtle. Poetry of an elevator and two cars. Poetry of a giant and a dwarf.
Poetry of the clown and the drunkard. Poetry of the star and the wall.
Poetry of the summer and the mountain. Poetry of the flying rabbit and the
dancing shoe. And poetry of the pain of joy and poetry of the joy of pain.
Poetry of the bat and the witch. Poetry of the torn shoe and the barefoot
stockings and the horizon that looks for you when you’re approaching the
mountain. And poetry of the hill you descend when you’re expecting the
call. And poetry of the number lost in the magician’s hat. And poetry of the
parakeet’s feather and poetry of the parrot and the parasol. And poetry of
the shadow and the witness. And poetry of the accident and the surprise.
And poetry of the love that never arrives because it escapes with the
magician’s hat. And the word poetry, and the sound poetry, and the
shadow poetry become two real numbers, two real clowns, two jumbo jets,
two cheers that no one hears because shattered in the air they cease being
air and shattered against the wind they cease being wind. And poetry
without mountain and without hill. And poetry without absence and without
emptiness. And poetry of the night and the witness in shadow, in dust, in
nothing.