Al buen Pedro

They say, good Pedro, that you gossip about me
Because my hair's a mess behind my ears
In curly waves it lifts its flow.
Tell them, you scoundrel, that while you feast,
In golden broths and fragrant fruits,
Among the young ladies of the sly north,
You drink the bloody sweat of your slaves,
Twisted into careless gold,
Thoughtful, feverish, pale, serious,
I break my bread at a lonely table
Pleading, oh sad one! to the deaf air
To free the servant from his misfortune
And from your disgrace, you!
And in these moments,
It often happens, Pedro, that in the tight purse
The coin that the barber demands
Is missing, with his damp hands.