Raven

He finds a suitable place.

The raven’s gaze is fixed on him,

stitching unperturbed, like waves in a flood,

watching what passes on the road:

good omen or bad?

It sees a thing like others it has seen before,

a line on the horizon crossing its sight,

faraway scorched buildings,

a cloud over a remote beach.

Now, they look at each other from a distance,

this figure of a raven, and the darkness,

and that of a man, whatever you imagine.

Since the raven is a source of sorrow in the man’s eyes, ugly,

it is the subject of a tale of lamentation,

a bandit on the road to paradise.

It is perched to heap sorrow upon sorrow,

to appear in a dream at the threshold of sadness

and open the door for all

to destroy the small homes of those thoughts.

He calls out: “You, Raven!”

But indifferent to wet or dry, good or evil,

the raven stares at him,

cold and motionless,

as the waves sullenly come and go.

Something is hidden.

Something is chewed.