Bread of celebration (It's an unfair world)
The world is a hotel with no reception desk.
The gift of eloquence is not a common good.
Loaves and fishes were not distributed that way.
Meat to the starboard, fishbones to the port.
You're going to lose your head and it's raining hats on you,
the rich will have money the poor will have children.
I know of a bread that I would break into chunks
miniscule chunks that would make enough leftovers,
if a crumb could possibly fill a mouth,
if it could satisfy or perhaps even untie a tongue.
Like lifeboats on the glory of the Titanic,
groves of combs for those who are
Urbi et orbi of rhetoric: neither here nor expected.
Beards are knitted for those lacking a jaw.
Some mouths were granted three seconds of memory.
And God will give that bread
to someone with fewer teeth.
© translated by Lawrence Schimel