There is no umbrella against the poem rising from regions where everything in a surprise, like a flower from a garden.

There is no umbrella
against love
that chews up and spits out-
like a mouth;
that grinds like a disaster.

There is no umbrella
against the world
the newspapers ruin each day
with this kind of paper,
this ink.

There is no umbrella
against time;
river flowing under the house,
its current carrying off the days,
one's hair.
Politicians only talk's.