You tripped over stars, clumsy
We had so few books at home
And there was no bookstore in town
But the books that entered our life
Are like black body radiation
Pointing to the expansion of the universe
Because, sentences, concepts, plots, poetry
(And for sure, especially poetry)
Is what can launch worlds in the world
You tripped over stars, clumsy
Unaware that the fortune and the misfortune
Of this road that goes from nowhere to nowhere
Are books and the moonlight on culture1
Books are transcendent objects
But we can love them with the tactile love
That we dedicate to cigarette packs
Tame them, cultivate them in fish tanks
In bookshelves, birdcages, fires
Or throw them out of the window
(Maybe this will spare us from throwing ourselves)
Or what is much worse, for hating ourselves
We could simply write one
Fill with vain words many pages
And make a bigger mess in the shelves
You tripped on stars, clumsy
But for me, you were the star among the stars
1. "On culture" is a wordplay, it sounds like "counterculture"