“The Burglar of Babylon” by Elizabeth Bishop

On the fair green hills of Rio

There grows a fearful stain:
The poor who come to Rio

And can’t go home again.

On the hills a million people,

A million sparrows, nest,
Like a confused migration

That’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 the people come and come.
There’s one hill called the Chicken,

And one called Catacomb;

There the hill of Kerosene,

And the hill of the Skeleton,
The hill of Astonishment,

And the hill of Babylon.

Micuçú was a burglar and killer,

An enemy of society.
He had escaped three times

From the worst penitentiary.

They don’t know how many he murdered

(Though they say he never raped),
And he wounded two policemen

This last time he escaped.

They said, “He’ll go to his auntie,

Who raised him like a son.
She has a little drink shop

On 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 mulata

Carrying water on her head.
“If you say you saw me, daughter,

You’re just as good as dead.”

There are caves up there, and hideouts,

And an old fort, falling down.
They used to watch for Frenchmen

From the hill of Babylon.

Below him was the ocean.

It reached far up the sky,
Flat as a wall and on it

Were freighters passing by,

Or climbing the wall, and climbing

Till 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 him

He could see its naked neck.
He waved his arms and shouted,

“Not yet, my son, not yet!”

An Army helicopter

Came 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 skyline

A row of them, small and still.

Children peeked out of windows,

And men in the drink shop swore,
And spat a little cachaça

At the light cracks in the floor.

But the soldiers were nervous, even

With 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 hysterics

And sobbed like a little child.

The dying man said, “Finish

The job we came here for.”
He committed his soul to God

And 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 again

Up the hill of Babylon.

Rich people in apartments

Watched through binoculars
As long as daylight lasted.

And all night, under the stars,

Micuçú hid in the grasses

Or sat in a little tree,
Listening for sounds and staring

At the lighthouse out at sea.

And the lighthouse stared back at him,

Till 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 beaches

And people going to swim,
With towels and beach umbrellas,

But soldiers were after him.

Far, far below, the people

Were little colored spots,
And the heads of those in swimming

Were floating coconuts.

He heard the peanut vendor

Go peep-peep on his whistle,
And the man that sells umbrellas

Swinging his watchman’s rattle.

Women with market baskets

Stood on the corners and talked,
Then went their way to market,

Gazing up as they walked.

The rich with their binoculars

Were back again, and many
Were 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 solider panting,

Though he never got very near.
Micuçú dashed for shelter.

But he got it, behind the ear.

He heard the babies crying

Far, far away in his head,
And the mongrels barking and barking.

Then Micuçú 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 populace

Heaved a sigh of relief,
But behind the counter his auntie

Wiped her eyes in grief.

“We have always been respected.

My shop is honest and clean.
I loved him, but from a baby

Micuçú was always mean.

“We have always been respected.

His sister has a job.
Both 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 burglar,

He got caught six times—or more.”

This morning the little soldiers

Are on Babylon hill again;
Their gun barrels and helmets

Shine in the gentle rain.

Micuçú is buried already.

They’re after another two,
But they say they aren’t as dangerous

as the poor Micuçú.

On the fair green hills of Rio

There grows a fearful stain:
The poor who come to Rio

And 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.

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