The Assassinated Poet
At first everything I had was taken away:
What I had on or didn't have with me.
With scalpel, with mania, with fury
They tore off my autumn and even my way
of walking. In the curving highway
of whatever road my agony.
Not content with that, they laughed at me.
And I was thrown beside the soft clay.
Autumn is madly searching for me.
The moon already licking my motionless shape.
My walk has been suspended temporarily.
I have never complained of my fate.
In killing me they acted benevolently:
My wandering death, they have helped me locate.
translated by William Gillespie & María Isabel Silva Hurralde