Classic Poem

A few days ago I bought three
packs of eggs, thirty eggs in all
and now only one is left,
they've all been eaten up, yet
nothing has happened.
Is that really so?
Can such a thing happen?

There are those who say
that love is never more than a punishment
but this blind love
without a single window,
inside
this dumb love
unable to say a single sound, no a b c or d ,
and curled inside the shell of that last remaining egg
what oviparous tales are you dreaming?
What oviparous myths
do you say you are waiting for?

As for me, curled up like this
under December's cloudy skies,
I am dreaming of chicks skittering
through fields of green dropwort some spring day,
of some primeval azure dawn
with golden cockerels crowing cock-a-doodle-doo
as if waiting for the Phoenix to rise.

Did you expect your blue plate
tomorrow morning
to contain a yellow fried egg?
Did you see that golden Phoenix
fly fluttering over our roof?
In that case, go ahead, ask me
once more then how I am.