Mis Harapos

Gentleman of my dreams, I have a pen instead of a sword
My word is the castle of my queen, the illusion
My romantic mane so straight and badly combed
Is more beautiful than the curled braids of Ninon

I have a cousin, he is rich, powerful, well-loved
I am poor, I am sick, I think, I write, and I know how to dream
And one night of those bitter nights I have suffered
My rags brushed against his tuxedo as he passed by

He looked at me casually, did not let go of his white hand
It will shake mine, passing on warmth
My elegant cousin dressed in his tuxedo
And he walked away ashamed of his dreamer cousin

The icy wind at times blew compassionately
I felt cold inside, cold outside, and all like that
Leaning against the door, I burst into convulsive tears
And crying like a child, like a man, I cursed

You are brushing against the frayed edges of my tragic rags
A smirk of irony, my misery was torn from me
Also laughing in the puddles are the filthy tadpoles
When they brush against the plumage of a fallen condor

Unmistakable archetype of hypocrites who now disguise
With the impeccable cut of a tuxedo or tailcoat
You are the archetype, my pride rejects you
Leave me with my rags, they are nobler than your tailcoat