SHOUTS

Gladys left her shouts
in a candy jar, for too long.
Only sweetness remains from them
toward whom Gladys is like a fly who fears its desires.
 
Her tiredness is not stubborn enough,
like her fading shouts,
and though she is not necessarily in favor of shouts
that leave irremoveable stains,
blood streams through the body
even if it's not dripping out of it.

It's even less tiring than crying.
And what does she know? Nothing.
Just that sometimes she hears embarrassing things,
scream out the crises.
 
To chant poetry it's not necessary to shout.
But it's always bloody.
And it's sexy.

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