La élite
Mismo tono- sonido repetitivo
de las palabras vomitadas
sobre la multitud complaciente-
y largo aplauso que oculta
la poca vergüenza de la élite.
La élite:
esos pocos elegidos
a dedo
por sus amigos.
Esos pocos hombres adultos
de narices largas
y afiladas;
perfectas para oler
culos ajenos.
Blank pages are not allowed
on their tables;
there’s no space for the broken word
in their memorized explanations;
there’s no in between
in the labels of their schedule.
It is not what you say
-te pierden las formas-
up in your high throne
you’re wasting your time
not giving me any to think
about what you just have said,
or reply
to what you have forgotten.
You may be selling your knowledge-
I’m simply wasting my time,
beating my patience
and hating your college:
I’m simply creating rage
out of your self-sufficient manners.
I’m the voice of those
who were not able to be born rich;
I’m the air in the lump
of the poor painter without promotion,
the unpublished novel about old love,
the voice of the old-fashioned god
-the voice of the free culture.
I’m the tear not fallen
throughout your cold cheek.
Soy la voz de las grandes mentes
silenciadas en el frío mundo editorial.
La voz del que no escribe por escribir.
Soy una voz,
y eso ya es mucho:
I’m a literary dream.
Mismo tono- sonido repetitivo
de las palabras vomitadas
sobre la multitud complaciente-
y largo aplauso que oculta
la poca vergüenza de la élite.
La élite:
esos pocos elegidos
a dedo
por sus amigos.
Esos pocos hombres adultos
de narices largas
y afiladas;
perfectas para oler
culos ajenos.
Blank pages are not allowed
on their tables;
there’s no space for the broken word
in their memorized explanations;
there’s no in between
in the labels of their schedule.
It is not what you say
-te pierden las formas-
up in your high throne
you’re wasting your time
not giving me any to think
about what you just have said,
or reply
to what you have forgotten.
You may be selling your knowledge-
I’m simply wasting my time,
beating my patience
and hating your college:
I’m simply creating rage
out of your self-sufficient manners.
I’m the voice of those
who were not able to be born rich;
I’m the air in the lump
of the poor painter without promotion,
the unpublished novel about old love,
the voice of the old-fashioned god
-the voice of the free culture.
I’m the tear not fallen
throughout your cold cheek.
Soy la voz de las grandes mentes
silenciadas en el frío mundo editorial.
La voz del que no escribe por escribir.
Soy una voz,
y eso ya es mucho:
I’m a literary dream.
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