You Will Come to My House
But it’s not really my house.
I don’t know whose it is.
One day I just walked in by chance.
There was no one.
Only some red peppers hanging on a white wall.
I lived in this house for a long time.
No one ever came.
Day by day,
I waited for you.
I didn’t do anything.
Nothing serious, I mean.
Sometimes in the morning
I’d let out animalistic screams,
Bray like a madman
With all the strength I had.
And that truly made me happy.
Then I’d play with my feet.
Feet are very intelligent—
They can take you far
When you want to go far,
And when you don’t,
They just stay and keep you company.
And when there’s music, they dance.
No dancing without them.
You’d have to be a fool, as people often are,
To say such foolish things.
A fool reasoning with his feet, alive like a snowbird.
But the snowbird isn’t really alive.
It’s alive only for as long as it’s alive.
It’s sad when it’s sad,
Or neither alive nor sad.
What do we know about a snowbird?
But even that’s not its name.
Man called it that himself—
Snowbird, snowbird, snowbird.
How strange names are.
Martin Hugo Victor is a name.
Bonaparte Napoleon is his name.
Why that way and not another?
A herd of Bonapartes crosses the desert.
The emperor is called Camel.
He has a cardboard horse and some running tapes.
Galloping far away is someone with just three names:
Tim Tam Tom, and no last name.
A little farther away, someone I don’t know.
Much farther still, something I don’t know.
But all of this—what does it matter?
In my house, you will come.
I think of something else and only think of this.
And when you enter my house,
You’ll take off your clothes,
And with your red lips and naked body, you’ll remain—
Like red peppers on the white wall.
Then you’ll go to bed, and I’ll lie beside you.
Exactly like that.
In my house, which isn’t my house, you will come.
