Malos tiempos para la lírica

The blue of the sea floods my eyes,
the scent of flowers envelops me,
against the rocks my anger crashes
and thus restores all hope to me.
Bad times for poetry.

The rats run through the darkness of the alley,
your mother comes down with the basket and greets,
surely she has finished your cotton sweater
you can draw a white and pure smile.

Bad times for poetry.

Surely one day tired and bored
you will find someone of good appearance,
well-paid banker job
and your mother with glasses will knit again