by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
In the gloom of evening
where the lilacs bloom
the dash of a snail is no
blur in slow motion.
A bitter leaf is his meal.
His eyes are cloudy in darkness.
The sonorous sounds of
birds must seem frightening.
The snail must not worry.
It must not weep. It must
go on and live and sleep
in a grassy or dirty bed.
The strong, the swift, and
the evil will always be there.
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