Calamari Union

In the shop window
early in the morning.

A dust-coloured reflection.
But he's not looking
at his own head.

Why should he?
No, he's dreaming.
Dreaming of some
other head -

a calf's head in
a vinegar sauce.

Or any other head
good for food.

He grinds his teeth -
knowing that the world -
doesn't give a damn
about him.

Nothing he can do
to the world!

He counts his fingers -
one, two, three!

One, two, three!
Three days without food!
For three days he's
been telling himself:

"This can't go on!"
But on and on it goes.
Three days, three nights
without food!

And behind those windows -
the pastries, bottles, tins.
Dead fishes protected by tins -
tins protected by windows -
windows protected by police -
police protected by fear.
Such a barricade for
six wretched sardines!