The house with the terrible smell of cow's blood,
And their hot manure, which would stain the house of my childhood,
Where such things happened,
Horrifying colorful images.
And not the kind that comes from Doris Lessing's words,
This flesh is not for charity,
It’s livestock for sale at the market,
Impossible to regulate...
The dried pork my grandmother saved for me,
Which I never eat,
A bite of my lunch.
Wrapped in newspaper, a good piece,
Redirected to the neighbors,
Little young calves,
With eyes wide open,
Their meat cooked with herbs,
Their skins salted,
Their cries hide in my heart,
Death is coming,
You turn into a dead corpse,
But their eyes stare in vain,
And the feet of the calves hop involuntarily,
It's a sad morning, says my uncle,
And with peasant manners, he smokes a cigarette.
The corpse, loaded into the car,
Dragged for sale,
My uncle brings water from the well,
Drinks it like a pig, burping,
I feel nauseous,
And I wonder where the black birds are,
But my uncle doesn't die in an accident,
The days repeat,
The pear trees that cover the yard with their branches,
The window panes reflect their shadows,
Why doesn't my heart stop,
During the ball game?
Weighed down by someone else’s sin,
I approach the ******* stone,
While my uncle urinates under the tree.
This text is not well-structured; I just wanted to say that.
