MY GRANDMOTHERMy grandmother, who knew all the tricks of the word,Would tell me: “Be careful with the word and its whims,For it is a stubborn mule that cannot be tied.”THE POETRY PRIZEThey gave the poet a prize, a prize of great worth,A decoration the size of a horseshoe.The poet walked with his head high in the wind,The prize hung its head like a wretch.THE EYEThe insatiable eyeThat tires itself out roaming,Always goes to sleep hungry!THE WISE SHEPHERDHe gave away his flockFor an office and a chair.Now the milking,Is a highly profitable affair.THE BRIDLEVeliu makes bridles for beasts,Bridles for horses, mules and donkeys,But on his own mouth, the scoundrel,Never put a bridle at all.
PILO ZYBA
