Moulded Child
Here is my child moulded by my hands, chiselled by my chisels, by my hammer
that sang, that cacked over the handles of my knives.
But what a terrible, twisted child, wrapped in stone like waves!
I do not recognize this child of my sweat, of my tortures, of my heart that panted
when my hands, armed and nailed to a chisel, did not know how to stop.
Wild light that wipes away sweat and palpitations you blind me and I no
longer recognize my onetime joy which overflowed in the hammerings of my mad love.