"The Martyr"

I’m a love poet in a land of little love,
Of curtains down shut and trash cans
I’m a poet of filthy alleys for there is
Love and for there I search my hands.

Little love and many poems cause but
Intestine troubles and letters ripped off.
The gold is hidden out of the language
And we know beauty speaks no french.

Walking half naked the only way home,
Very soon I will eat again with the poor.
And I don’t swear, but I swear I will try
To make at least the poor living, then die.