Tabaqui

He comes transversal, the son of lie
A dip in the puddle, some blood in his thigh
So is the jackal preparing to die.

In the desert's morning, he comes hither.
No river to quench: the thirst is hidden
Bravely and foolishly. He turns inward:

Remember that night, fresh and starry?
The steps come near the injuréd quarry
In memory the jackal the gunner is staring.