The Burglar of Babylon

Questions of Travel

On the fair green hills of RioThere grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to RioAnd can’t go home again.

On the hills a million people,A million sparrows, nest,Like a confused migrationThat’s had to light and rest,

Building its nests, or houses,Out of nothing at all, or air.You’d think a breath would end them,They perch so lightly there.

But they cling and spread like lichen,And people come and come.There’s one hill called the Chicken,And one called Catacomb;

There’s the hill of Kerosene,And the hill of Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment,And the hill of Babylon.

Micuœ was a burglar and killer,An enemy of society.He had escaped three timesFrom the worst penitentiary.

They don’t know how many he murdered(Though they say he never raped),And he wounded two policemenThis last time he escaped.

They said, “He’ll go to his auntie,Who raised him like a son.She has a little drink shopOn the hill of Babylon.”

He did go straight to his auntie,And he drank a final beer.He told her, “The soldiers are coming,And I’ve got to disappear.”

“Ninety years they gave me.Who wants to live that long?I’ll settle for ninety hours,On the hill of Babylon.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me.I’ll run as long as I can.You were good to me, and I love you,But I’m a doomed man.”

Going out, he met a mulataCarrying water on her head.”If you say you saw me, daughter,You’re as good as dead.”

There are caves up there, and hideouts,And an old fort, falling down.They used to watch for FrenchmenFrom the hill of Babylon.

Below him was the ocean.It reached far up the sky,Flat as a wall, and on itWere freighters passing by,

Or climbing the wall, and climbingTill each looked like a fly,And then fell over and vanished;And he knew he was going to die.

He could hear the goats baa-baa-ing.He could hear the babies cry;Fluttering kites strained upward;And he knew he was going to die.

A buzzard flapped so near himHe could see its naked neck.He waved his arms and shouted,“Not yet, my son, not yet!”

An Army helicopterCame nosing around and in.He could see two men inside it,but they never spotted him.

The soldiers were all over,On all sides of the hill,And right against the skylineA row of them, small and still.

Children peeked out of windows,And men in the drink shop swore,And spat a little cachaaAt the light cracks in the floor.

But the soldiers were nervous, evenwith tommy guns in hand,And one of them, in a panic,Shot the officer in command.

He hit him in three places;The other shots went wild.The soldier had hystericsAnd sobbed like a little child.

The dying man said, “FinishThe job we came here for.”he committed his soul to GodAnd his sons to the Governor.

They ran and got a priest,And he died in hope of Heaven—A man from Pernambuco,The youngest of eleven.

They wanted to stop the search,but the Army said, “No, go on,“So the soldiers swarmed againUp the hill of Babylon.

Rich people in apartmentsWatched through binocularsAs long as the daylight lasted.And all night, under the stars,

Micuœ hid in the grassesOr sat in a little tree,Listening for sounds, and staringAt the lighthouse out at sea.

And the lighthouse stared back at him,til finally it was dawn.He was soaked with dew, and hungry,On the hill of Babylon.

The yellow sun was ugly,Like a raw egg on a plate—Slick from the sea. He cursed it,For he knew it sealed his fate.

He saw the long white beachesAnd people going to swim,With towels and beach umbrellas,But the soldiers were after him.

Far, far below, the peopleWere little colored spots,And the heads of those in swimmingWere floating coconuts.

He heard the peanut vendorGo peep-peep on his whistle,And the man that sells umbrellasSwinging his watchman’s rattle.

Women with market basketsStood on the corners and talked,Then went on their way to market,Gazing up as they walked.

The rich with their binocularsWere back again, and manyWere standing on the rooftops,Among TV antennae.

It was early, eight or eight-thirty.He saw a soldier climb,Looking right at him. He fired,And missed for the last time.

He could hear the soldier panting,Though he never got very near.Micuœ dashed for shelter.But he got it, behind the ear.

He heard the babies cryingFar, far away in his head,And the mongrels barking and barking.Then Micuœ was dead.

He had a Taurus revolver,And just the clothes he had on,With two contos in the pockets,On the hill of Babylon.

The police and the populaceHeaved a sigh of relief,But behind the counter his auntieWiped her eyes in grief.

“We have always been respected.My shop is honest and clean.I loved him, but from a babyMicuœ was mean.

“We have always been respected.His sister has a job.Both of us gave him money.Why did he have to rob?

“I raised him to be honest,Even here, in Babylon slum.”The customers had another,Looking serious and glum.

But one of them said to another,When he got outside the door,“He wasn’t much of a burglar,He got caught six times—or more.”

This morning the little soldiersare on Babylon hill again;Their gun barrels and helmetsShine in a gentle rain.

Micuœ is buried already.They’re after another two,But they say they aren’t as dangerousAs the poor Micuœ.

On the green hills of RioThere grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to RioAnd can’t go home again.

There’s the hill of Kerosene,And the hill of the Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment,And the hill of Babylon.