In our garden some dragon started dancing again
his vest shining with artificial spangles
blinding us with the countless little mirrors
when they shine straight into our eyes
his rages are the jumping lice invisible
that sting us under the most sensitive armpits and hairs
never can the Honorable groom and free himself from that Devil
nor can he scrape off his scabs with a rub-stone
although from his eye the sniper-lens shines
although from his mouth he belches fire from a grenade
and so he drags along his armoured tail throughout the land
he digs old roads and he dredges new paths
wherever he makes a nest he leaves one egg
if it is rotten it will crack on its own and start stinking
if not – new dragons and snakes will hatch
to ogle us cyclopeanly with that pool of spilt oil
during the day they spread and shed their wings
so they could search for new victim brides at night…
And our rogue during the day dips in mud and at night dreams
how to spur his horse like a young prince about to get married
and rubs the little feather of hope he had found on the way
that the angel-saviour will fly in his home
through wide-opened gates, amid smothered fire
and so he stares from a window into the yard
not to miss the moment when the golden wings
fly in and shed into countless aspers
only not to become light confetti once again, so transparent
that they will melt in the first morning rays
and before they trickle in the palms of the paupers
he to collect them all with a sole swing.