On the table (where I sat) three Russian poets gather.
One died in a hospital, nursed I guess by a fertile woman with virgin eyes,
it is far from impossible they took his body from the street, yanked it in the back,
people nearby peered from a hollow eye to the body, that of a man
having his head stonedrunk to the pavement on a pile of shabby garments.
Two died in battle. The other remained unknown.
Death came, nothing worse would happen among flies doomed to bore.
All three of them have seen, aging in different ages, the bread, the blood, crime.
Some poor fellows killed, the nursery of gold,
even treasure islands don't lack the password to this one and only god.
They may have told the truth, as poets do, or one or other filty lie, as poets do,
or even anything, as poets do.
On top of that it had nothing else but an endless stream of words. Words
(where I sat) words and words. Nothing worse.
On the table (where I sit) three poets gather.