The Hangman Of The Cafe Bonaparte

Pablo Armando Fernández
To not know the depths of smoke
to not swallow the evening newspapers
to not use a few spectacle frames covered with blood or Web
He was sitting in a corner away from the mirrors
taking a cup of coffee not hearing the turntable
but the noise of the poor drizzle
He was sitting in a corner away from the lightning
away from the purple lions from all wars
He did a cord with a sheet of paper
When the President's name father's name were written
and other two thousand illustrious names
and in view of everyone
It hung Hatter shining on his head
The pattern of the coffee came out under his black cloak in search of a police officer
Armstrong sang ceaselessly moon had appeared
like a furious cat on a roof
Three drunks were punched at the counter
and the hanged after rocking softly for a quarter of an hour
with its distant voice
began to make a beautiful speech:
"Maintenant je suis pendu dans le Bona
Rain is my misery quartz
Politicians gnaw my stick
If not I would have hanged he would die
the strange disease
that you suffer from those who do not eat
In my pockets I bring crumpled cards
I wrote myself
to fool my loneliness
My throat was filled with silence
now it is full of death"
"I am in love with the woman who keeps the keys to the night
She has looked in my eyes without knowing who I've been
Now you know it reading my story of soot in the newspapers
You know that I called Louis Krizek
the heart of the Freemen citizen
heir to the dawn ash
I have lived like a ghost
among the ghosts who live as man
I have lived without hatred and without lying
in a world of judges and shadows
The land where I was born was not my
and not the air that rest
I have only owned the freedom
i.e. the right to be subjected to wander
to be this cold body
hung as a result
among those who sing and laugh
between a beach of beer
and a temple built to worship the fear
The woman who keeps the keys to the night
know that you called me Krizek
and he limped a little, and I loved it
You know now I'm not only me
going away an old world
definitely deleted by dawn
As well as the fog sometimes crush
the cherry blossoms
the death has crushed my voice"
When the pattern returned with a police of Tin and sulfur
The Hangman of the Bonaparte Café
It wasn't more than shaky smoke a cigar
under the Hatter
over a cup of coffee

by Fayad Jamis

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