by Zbigniew Herbert
He is an utter failure as a devil. Even his tail. Not long and fleshly with a black brush of hair at the end, but short, fluffy, and sticking out comically like a rabbit's. His skin is pink, only under his left shoulder-blade a mark the size of a gold ducat. But his horns are the worst. They don't grow outward like other devils' but inward, into the brain. That's why he suffers so often from headaches.
He is sad. He sleeps for days on end. Neither good nor evil attract him. When he walks down the street, you see distinctly the motion of the rosy wings of his lungs.