Mis Harapos
Daniel Viglietti
My Rags
Dream knight, I wield feathers instead of a sword,
my word is the fortress of my kingdom, the illusion,
my romantic mane, so straight and badly combed,
is more beautiful than Ninón's curly braids.
I have a cousin, he's rich, powerful, well-loved,
I am poor, sick, I think, I write, and I know how to dream.
And one of those bitter nights I've endured,
my rags brushed against his tuxedo as he passed by.
He glanced at me casually, didn't let his white hand
clasp mine, passing on warmth.
He wore his tuxedo, my elegant cousin,
and he walked away ashamed of his dreamer cousin.
The icy wind at times, mercilessly intensified,
I felt cold inside, cold outside, all the same.
And leaning against a door, I burst into compulsive tears
and crying like a child, like a man, I cursed.
He brushes against the frayed edges of my tragic rags,
a smirk of irony ripped my misery from me.
Even the filthy tadpoles laugh in the puddles,
when they brush against the plumage of a fallen condor.
Unmistakable archetype of hypocrites who disguise
with the impeccable cut of a tuxedo or tailcoat.
You are, cousin, the archetype: my pride rejects you,
leave me with my rags, they are nobler than your tailcoat.
