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The Chinese With The Glass Hand
My hands are cold.
Of all the thoughts that I possess now,
This is the one I want to talk about:
My hands are cold.
The day before yesterday,
When I first noticed the fact,
I could blame the weather;
Whom is to blame yesterday, and today?
For this cold that thrusts inbetween my knucklebones,
That rubs the tip of my nails
And bites,
And kisses
With the blue, dry lips of a starving lover?
I am not dead (In the usual sense of the term).
The mistery, then, remains:
I cogitate, with little certainty,
That perhaps my hands have always been
Cold...
I look at them now, while I type:
Swarthy, elongated (slim fingers strike the keys
Slowly).
They appear to be bigger than the day before yesterday.
Once in a while,
Coldness moves
And lodges itself in other parts,
But most of times it is satisfied
In making my joints ache
When out there it's raining all night
And everything gets as quiet and silent as most of the dead people.
It's just one detail more, I wonder.
One might be able to say "That man with thick-trimmed glasses",
Or,
"That boy that looks Japanese",
Just as one can say: "That man with the cold hands!"...
My hands are cold as fishes,
And I say this indifferent, after all,
Like someone who repeats with the face of tediousness
A story repeated countless times in his village.
(The little kamaiurah* draws a beautiful drawing in the ground which surrounds him;
Birds fly slowly in a far away sunset).
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*name of a tribe of Indians. |
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