translated by Urayoán Noel



Part 3:

I’m the married man who invented matrimony;
ancient and egregious man, covered in catastrophe, dismal;
for a thousand years I haven’t slept, for a thousand years looking after the kids and the wakeful stars;
that’s why I drag my flesh hairy from sleepiness
over the guttural country of the opal chimneys.

Dromedary, dusty dromedary,
great wandering and yellow animal of crepuscular truths,
I’m trotting in my saddle of sad loves...

Awesome life bounces high and wide
atop my bull-sized back;
the booby-trapped bird of the quotidian smiles at my tentacular and self-absorbed guitars:
accustomed to raising children and songs in the mountains,
I behead the awful bird’s sarcasms with my nonexistent knives,
and I continue my great statues of tears;
future peoples applaud the old executioner’s jacket of my songs.

I compare my heart to the preceptor at the neighborhood school,
and I babble in the used graves
the dark song of him who has duties and obligations to infinity.

Furthermore, there, on my shores, go the hurried dead of now and their androgynes in oil;
I survey them with the dead stare of my necktie,
and my stance keeps on lighting the terrified lamps.

When the wet dogs of winter howl, from the next life,
and, from the next life, the waters drip,
I am eating charqui roasted over murmuring coals,
the mature wines sing in my spiritual cellars,
little Winett dreams, curled up in her sad and wounded delicacy,
the children and the embers laugh praising the joy of fire,
and we all feel like happiness millionaires, powerful from happiness,
happy in our good poverty,  
and at peace,
certain of the good poverty and the good sadness that makes us humble and emancipated,
...then, when the wet dogs of winter howl, from the next life...

“It’s good for man to bear it, I tell you,”
that’s what I tell the skeleton when he starts falling behind me, grumbling,
and I give him a kick in the ribs.

I frequently go to buy hazelnuts or olives at the cemetery,
I go with all the pipsqueaks, full of joy,
like a manufacturer of diseases who would become a rose vendor,
I sometimes find death pissing around the corner,
or a virgin star with naked breasts.

My confined pains
have a tropical fervor of orangutans;
poet of the West,
my nerves are grimy from factories and machines,  
the steno girls of activity lay out my face wracked from despondency,
and the cities made my sadness go mad
with the tremulous and strident figure of the automobile:
civil and municipal,
my pants continue the broken line of the century;
much like an immense law office,
populated by boredom,
the blind jar of the will full of flies.

A wandering dead man cries under my uninhabited songs.

And a bird of gunpowder
sings in my terrible and honorable hands, the same as permanganate,
the old song about the hen with the blue eggs.


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