The Great Tablecloth.

• Position: LATITUDES - Poem

When they were called to the table,the tyrants came rushing with theirtemporal ladies, it was fine to watch the womenpass like wasps with big bosomsfollowed by those pale and unfortunatepublic tigers. The peasant in the fieldate his poor quota of bread,he was alone, it was late, he wassurrounded by wheat, but he had no morebread; he ate it with grim teeth,looking at it with hard eyes. In the bluehour of eating, the infinite hour of theroast, the poet abandons his lyre,takes up his knife and fork, puts hisglass on the table, and the fishermenattend the little sea of the soup bowl.Burning potatoes protest among thetongues of oil. The lamb is gold on itscoals and the onion undresses.It is sad to eat in dinner clothes, likeeating in a coffin, but eating inconvents is like eating underground.Eating alone is a disappointment, but noteating matters more, is hollow and green, hasthorns like a...