How long will we have to wait for what is

not owed to us … And in what corner will

we kick our poor sponge forever! How long before

the cross that inspires us does not rest its oars.

How long before Doubt toasts our nobility for

having suffered … We have already sat so

long at this table, with the bitterness of a child

who at midnight, cries from hunger, wide awake …

And when will we join all the others, at the brink

of an eternal morning, everybody breakfasted.

For just how long this vale of tears, into which

I never asked to be led. Resting on my elbows,

all bathed in tears, I repeat head bowed

and defeated: how much longer will this supper last.

There’s someone who has drunk too much, and he mocks us,

and offers and withdraws from us—like a black spoonful

of bitter human essence—the tomb …

And this abstruse one knows

even less how much longer this supper will last!