My God, preserve me from the obsession
of watching the mailbox,
that anxious room of lugubrious messages.
My God, preserve me from the anguished breath
at a telegrams steps
posted from a distant sepulcher.
I have searched for Eden; uh-oh
I have found Hell,
I have applauded JFK,
but Nero has smiled at me,
I have asked for a roof for others
but I have lost my house,
I wanted a world for all
but I have lost my homeland.
Please, tell me that I am not crazy,
that I do not have to continue useless research,
otherwise, offer me a rope,
otherwise, offer me a coffin.
It is time to raze your monuments to the
and reestablish ours,
to ake our women shine again
and to make yours cry,
to presumption of our sons as soldiers
and to bring yours to their knees,
of our classy tuxedos
and your rotten coffins.
And it is unknown for whom
the gods prepare the next bronze,
the future marble,
counseled by Mark
you hate me.
you blaspheme me.
you are not diverse.
Euclid, you must regret the axiom
of parallel lines that never meet;
perhaps you forgot
the electromagnetism of hate
that fills the emptiness and touches the straight lines,
the inebrant matter
that exalts our diversity,
the electricity of rancor,
the magnetic field of poison,
the high voltage of hostility.
I hang you, but you are inert,
I light you, but you are blind,
I scream, scream, but you have no ears to hear,
I burn you, and the flame comes to your eyes,
but you, wax effigies, perpetuate
to observe meteorites,
trying to discover the evil spirits in other planets
and, until the blaze cracks the retina,
deliriously continue to sing your deluge.
My mother was felt fearfully bad
but I learned it after 6 months from a traveller;
my uncle had been transferred to heaven
could know it a year later by a driver;
the gate of my house was broken,
he, who spied on me, is now president
but I could read it two years
in a recycled newspaper.
My homeland was disintegrating
but I was notified from foreign TVs;
my hallucinations were poisoned,
the mirror was broken
and I couldnt gladly count the wrinkles.
hundreds of years are passed,
and yet nothing moves.
Days casted to suffer
are frantically negligible,
not enough to restrain,
Nights given to rejoice
are intangible nil.
Its necessary expansion of arc life
and another distribution
rained from the heavens
or detonated by magmas roots.