Those who are bored to death
Those who play at 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 kill myself loving
This land of lands
This ghostly indifference
To rain and blood
I die to understand
These wild ideas
That fill its mouth
With blackened 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 dung-hair
I, hero
I, idiot
I, the unknown