Yonder, where the fireox, the sun,
Drags a red cloud like an enormous plow,
At his animal lair crouches a naked man.
His face —
As if all old men, ever since old men have been on earth,
Before their death, pawned their wrinkles to him
And their last fears redeemed from mourning.

The people here, chirping like birds,
Call him: The Immortal.
They're all afraid
To pass his cave.
Only the blind —
For the blind gain their sight in the smoke of his gaze.

The people here, chirping like birds,
Know that The Immortal is older than the rain,
Older than the locust,
Older than hell.
He was not created in a belly
Like you, like all of us —
Bellies are graves,
Where, in man's image,
Death is created
With a curly head.
The people here, chirping like birds,
Swear:
The Immortal wants to die but cannot.
Fire would help him —
Does not reach his skin.
The cobra would help him —
Its venom has vanished.
It bites and bites and cannot poison him.

Witness the tigress
That lives with him.