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To the Antipodal Men To you I speak, antipodal men from the future or from another parallel universe, I speak man to man with the little that remains of man in me still alive, with the scrap of voice left in my throat torn by unspoken screams and cries, my blood lies upon the roads, let it not scream, let it not cry for vengeance ever. The death-note sounds, the beasts hunted down in dust, I speak with these words, the words that have been our share, the few intelligible ones that still remain, a day will come surely of quenched thirst, we will be beyond memory's reach, death will have finished the works of hate, I will be a clump of nettles beneath feet. Ah then, know that I had a face like yours, a mouth that prayed just like you, when a bit of dust or a dream entered my eye, this eye shed its drop of salt, and when a cruel thorn raked my skin, the blood flowed red as your own blood, yes exactly like you I was cruel, I yearned for tenderness, power and gold complete. I yearned for pleasure and pain, like you I was mean and anguished in my life, solid in peacetime, drunk in victory and staggering, haggard in the hour of failure, yes I was a man like other men nourished on bread, on dreams, on despair, oh yes, I loved, I wept, I hated, I suffered, I bought flowers and forgot to pay the rent. Sundays I went to the country to cast for unreal fish under the eye of God, I bathed in the river that sang among the rushes and ate fried potatoes in evening, and afterwards I came back for bedtime tired, my heart full of loneliness entire, full of pity for myself, full of pity for man, searching upon a woman's belly there. Searching for that impossible peace we lost long ago in a great orchard wide, where flowering at the center is the tree of life with its cosmic and eternal branches, like you I read all the papers, all the bestsellers and understood nothing of the world, understood nothing of man though often I affirmed the contrary with empty pride. And when death, when death came, maybe I pretended to know what it was then, but now truly I can tell you in this cosmic and final hour that has arrived, it has fully entered my astonished eyes, astonished to understand so very little, have you understood more than I? And yet no, no I was not a man like you ever. You were not born on the roads, no one threw your little ones like blind kittens away, you did not wander from city to city hunted by police, you did not know dawn's disasters, the cattle cars and the bitter sob of abasement, accused of a wrong you did not do, of a murder still without a cadaver, changing your name and face, not to bear a spat-upon face. A day will come no doubt when this poem will find itself before your eyes ahead, it asks nothing, forget it, forget it, it is just a scream that cannot fit in perfect poem, do I even have time to finish it? But when you trample on this bunch of nettles here, that had been me in another century, in a history you will have erased, remember innocence. And that like you mortals of this day I too had a face marked and scarred within, by rage, by pity and joy, an ordinary human face with eyes full of tears and pain, I speak man to man with the little that remains, with blood on roads without vengeance, a clump of nettles beneath your feet but with a face like yours, a human face the same.

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