Ni Un Padre Nuestro

My arm doesn't know it, nor my leg
Nor the thread of my voice, nor my waist
Nor does the Moon know it, that is internal
In my garden of love and misfortune

And I am dead, yes, like a sad rose
Abandoned in the trash
Like a pitcher of tavern water
That no one would crave its freshness

And today, being Sunday, Lord, I have walked
My corpse of love shrouded
Like a sinister scarecrow

The people, without astonishment, have looked at me
And none have taken off their hat
To pray for me, not even a sad Our Father
Not Our Father, an Our Father

The people, without astonishment, have looked at me
But none have taken off their hat
To pray for me, not even a sad Our Father
Not Our Father, an Our Father