Cemetary by Joaquin Pasos

That bored land of the snoring men,
is where the poor birds live,
the hens that eat stones
the owls that hoot at night.
The bored land of the snoring men
is a cage made of sand, an um made of mud.
A black gourd, a dry jug
a coal, a shit, a husk.
 
In the bored land of the snoring men
where the sad birds live, the deaf birds,
the stone crops, the broom fields.
Beetles protect, toads care for
the manure-treasure of the poor birds.
The sick birds, the ones dressed in shadow
the ones who inhabit the land of the snoring men.
 
I have a sad memory of that timeless land,
pecked by birds, crumbling.
At night, in the flight of bats
its clay horizons and brush moon pursue me.
In the bored land of the snoring men
my dream became stone, and then dust.