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