Right, Comrade, It's the Hour of the Garden
- Pablo Neruda

Right, comrade, it's the hour of the garden
and the hour up in arms, each day
follows from flower or blood:
our time surrenders us to an obligation
to water the jasmines
or bleed to death in a dark street:
virtue or pain blows off
into frozen realms, into hissing embers,
and there never was a choice:
heaven's roads,
once the by-ways of saints,
are jammed now with specialists.

Already the horses have vanished.

Heroes hop around like toads,
mirrors live out the emptiness
because the party is happening somewhere else,