When I opened

a tin of fish

a mackerel winked at me

in its little mouth

it had a little pea

the fish was completely dead

its eye beautifuly shone

its forehead was little sweaty

sleeping in oil

no questions to ask anymore


Like the mackerel,

which didn’t want

instead of water greasy metal

also even from me, who will

swallow the head

they’ll take away my shore

my eye will shine (for the last time)

my forehead will sweat

stiff as a board

I’ll have no questions to ask anymore.

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