THE STATUE

I’m a broken bell,
lily without scent,
fountain that has lost
its lively murmur.

My rosebushes grow
only long thorns.
I’m black wheat
that makes bitter bread.

Why would you want me
if I don’t have scent or savor?
Why would you want me
if my apples are withered?

The golden pollen
that gave me life
has been diluted
with dark dust.

Go on, let Death know
that I’m expecting her.
Go on, let Death know
that I’m made of bronze.

That my eyes
don’t know how to cry,
and that my lips
can’t kiss.

Go on. King Midas
passed by here,
and I was transformed
into a statue of gold.

Go! Don’t whisper
that word again,
that abracadabra
to break my enchantment.

Don’t say a word,
don’t hang around here.
If the statue comes to life,
you’ll be sorry.