Do not stare at me from your window, lady
do not stare and wonder where I came from
Born in this city was I, lady,
hearing the beetles at six o'clock
and the noisy cocks in the morning
when your hands rumple the bed sheet
and night is locked up the wardrobe.
My hands are full of lines
like your breast with veins, lady -
So do not stare and wonder where I came from
My hands are full of lines
like your breast with viens, lady -
and one must rear, while one must suckle life...
Do not stare at me from your window, lady.
Stare at the wagon of prisoners!
Stare at the hearse passing by your gate!
Stare at the slums in the south of the city!
Stare hard and reason, lady, where I came from
and where I go.
My hand is full of lines
like your breast with veins, lady,
and one must rear, while one must suckle life.
Martin Carter
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-stare-at-me/
