Nothing is denied to make these days
more habitable. The son observes us
with binoculars and laughs; the clouds of dust
that the trucks cause obstructs us;
on the horizon, secret rumors open halfway
like hidden doors and deafening echoes
in the domed space of the night.
What shall we say to the carnations
that show themselves bare?
What shall we tell the statues
all covered in bird droppings, so that they will go to sleep?
What can we offer to the neglected many
that walk in the plazas
where the loneliness has laid its eggs?
maybe we’ll stay sensibly silent
but there will be no way of being innocent and calm.
I love these days like a poor person loves his shack.
The sun, from the sky, watches us with binoculars and smiles.
(Trans. Robert Manzanares)