Even if I was in the butcher shop display
Exposed and cut to bits like a poor piece of beef
Even so my boss, nostrils florid may
With a gloomy eye, onion and chervil await
Even so my stomach, guts all uncoiled
Would open up, all bloody to curiosity
Even so my heart so ornately plated
Would join it with my brain, my liver and kidney
No one would know where in among all my cutlets
My viscera and offal
The thistle which flowers sown there by the conquests
Which none will ever uproot
The lively thistle which plants these roots down
In this soil most arid and this soil full of lime
The thistle, pitiless, which scrapes its spiny crown
Toward the rough parallel pains in time
