Those who are bored to death
Those who amuse themselves by suffering
Those who pollute time
Those who torture the wind
Those who are no more
Those who could have been
A dark crowd
A clear night
And I, killing myself loving it
This homeland of color
This ghost, indifferent
To rain or to blood
I kill myself trying to understand
These wild ideas
That fill its mouth
With the blackish foam
Of acceptable losses
And I wait for its imperial voice
To hurl me onto the bullet
That already waits for me
At the foot of a statue
With bronze skin
And hair of dung
Me, hero
Me, idiot
Me, the unknown