poem by Ruth Salles
Blackboard drawing by Verônica Calandra Martins.
The face and paws:
the shovels that dig.
the short nails
iron in the earth;
thin muzzle
bottom muzzle;
run that run,
shave that shave,
drilling the tunnel
entrance to the house.
At the end of a slight curve,
the corridor widens in its area,
long, wide and high, opening into a room.
The rodent in the nest:
there alone
envision your future,
your deep
dip into some sleep,
your hunger.
your script
soon you know,
your barn
then dig,
up, up
to the top
long pipes,
chimneys.
run, run,
firm iron,
fine earth
up.
And, clear in the highs,
shelters open,
wheat warehouses;
warehouses of everything
that thrives and grows
in the cold steppes.
(The cut stems,
the threshed grains.
In the night your theft.
In your mouth your burden.
There you go, cheeky,
in the pockets on the sides.
full creeps,
there it goes loaded.)
And, in the most hidden narrow ground,
quiet rest.
Worked out your destiny, your script,
in blueprint drawing.
And though covered in light straw,
contracted, icy
and forgotten all in long sleep,
have everything ready.
And if the cold, the snow, the wind outside
wave their wings,
he, secure in himself, guarding his breath,
sleep inside the house.
the hamster. His job: gnawing, digging.
Your mystery: your home.
***
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