When the foreigner came to the city, he did not yet know how to speak our language.
THE MAN WITH THE BEAUTIFUL EYES
He was tall, about 30 years old,
with a tattoo of an octopus -on his shoulder-
and another one of a storm.
He also had beautiful eyes,
he drank whiskey and challenged us with his voice.
Having a good time, I hope?
He walked with the same provocation with which he spoke,
pretending to hide the fear he was afraid of us.
He waved all his arms freely along the length of his body,
convinced that his disguise was effective.
Throwing that away, he was kind.
Several times he would even pull off one of his arms
and offered it to anyone who needed it.
There will always be someone who needs an extra arm,
even if it's just to put it around the neck,
while he sleeps.
His arms were growing back inevitably,
like a starfish.
The foreigner had already travelled in various countries
-28-
and he knew by heart poems of each of them.
His favourite spoke of a pond of goldfish
and of a strong and natural man...
as we are.
Because we could look into the blue eyes of the foreigner
without averting our own
and receive his arms
without the octopus-man accepting in return
not even a handshake.
Until one day,
the foreigner learned a poem in our language.
And at once
he realized that we knew his secret
and that we accepted it,
with the arms that existed only to walk away
and the fear
I felt for her beautiful eyes.
Then he began to throw punches at reality.
And with the punches the arms went with the punches,
In a disjointed heathen dance
and heretical.
I've never lost all my arms before,
and not knowing that,
if I lost them all at once,
they would never grow back.