Lament for Juan Gelman's Moustache

All at once that stubborn dog of a heart stopped barking at Lady Poetry, jumped over the wall where the sacred crows of Kashmir dwelt and said: I've come into this world to stay. It can't be, protested the daffy nurses of Pickapoon Hospital. It can't be, the guardians of the public order responded in chorus. All at once that heart stopped leaping, not in his beloved Buenos Aires where he'd mis- placed his violin for good or in Ukraine where José sawed timber and memorized train schedules. That stubborn dog of a heart kept singing in the face of turbulence, never knowing whether the Lady would arrive. He put bars on his verses because of issues with his lungs and thanked the little birds that ate from his hand. He fed the crows as well—"breadcrumbing," he'd call it—ringing a bell while quoting mystics in their native tongues. This is why I've come, he'd say, but all at once that stubborn dog of a heart stopped speaking and drew a giant moustache high up in the spheres. You can see it if you dare listen to their music.