At dawn
You ever dawdle in the Capital
When the day breaks, when sweepers emerge?
They are no poets — and, for them, the dawn
Is no sign of triumphant refuge.
Like pompous critics, in the alleys,
In flailing gestures, they hurl dust clouds at the sun…
But, serene, it grows in splendor
Shooting gilded spears at the malefactors!
They draw back, blinded in its flash,
And later, dashing like a sacrilegious sabbath,
In the clouds they had hurled they perish
Riding their brooms, like it’s Walpurgisnacht.
