Small ground owls range themselves
On posts along the road
Little old lady ground owls
Like wisdom, come out of the sea
Small young ground owls are like the weather
There it comes, there it comes

No one stuffs a small owl
Without a red lantern
Without a red robe in a black room
Without a wardrobe where scratchy reeds squeak mildly

In the Argentine countryside
The little owls await the hour
Like the Creoles and the Indians
They wait without hope
Ranged on posts along the road
Watching the cars pass

A buick, a ford, a pontiac, a plymouth, a cadillac
In which the taxidermists ride
With their wives and children

Without a red robe in a black room
Without a wardrobe where scratchy reeds squeak mildly

No one stuffs an owl
Without a red lantern
Without a red robe in a black room
To dissect lions who need lightning
For little owls who need forgetfulness