Dónde Están Los Poetas

Where are the poets?
Where might the poets be?
When they sing and no one hears them
It's a sign that everything is going wrong

If they are alive, they are rewarded with oblivion
But perhaps some will be
Honored after they die
In jail or in loneliness

Who are the poets?
The witnesses of a treacherous world
They want to take to the streets
To make the revolution

And in the corner they go off on tangents
Where a bird flew away from them
And they lock themselves back in their books
That find neither readers nor publishers

And perhaps the poets
Never sell out or lie
It's possible that sometimes they rent out
Their words out of necessity

Or that a couple of lost illusions
They exchange each day for bread
But they are everyone's conscience
And mice of eternity

Here are the poets
Helping us to sigh
Here are the poets
Helping us to sigh