Hombre

Wanting to sing to you I suffer dyspnea
far beyond the lungs.
Your shadow shines today in the greatest
battle of conscience and reasons.
For you I sing from the chest,
like the dream in which I revolve
and light, like I still breathe.
For you I advance a stretch
to what is missing in tone
and sing what I do not forgive.

Man, man and friend,
there is still time to be with you.
Man, man without temple,
your example descends to my city.

You knew how to ride against those who hate
from their tower of hatred and extermination,
but, in my opinion, you gained more glory
with the soul you carved into your domain.
The scarce medicine,
the most insufficient,
is that of healing the mind.
And madness passes
smiling when it deceives,
like hatred from one's own core.

Man without a surname,
I ask for a little pity:
man, oh, still,
for the day is a bit further.

From unkempt mane to baldness,
from the initial number to the countless,
from the grave to the surface,
after a brief twenty so multiplicable,
I receive a winged song
of childhood fevers,
the invention of longing sprouts from me
and whole and mutilated,
furiously with kisses,
I give you my mischievous heart:

Man, man without death,
the night breathed your fate,
man of good destiny,
and there are lights set on the way.