Mis Días Son Más Tristes Que El Entierro de Un Niño

Always against the sea
And with the boat full of holes
Depression is my mantra and loneliness my ally
My chest is a glut of accumulated misfortunes
My room is the office of these bloody ballads

The birds no longer sing but the sky screams for help
Away from the meadows I've never known
The law of injustice has condemned me to exile
The sky is not for angels or crippled birds

And each one with an expiration date
Life seems eternal even in the eyes of the dying
Until this fleeting brightness fades and with it
The conceit of one who will never know they were naive

Far from that conscious fallacy of my misfortune
For I know that life is transitory
Interpreters of a drama that violates arrogance
Reducing to the same end a myriad of trajectories

My days are sadder than a child's burial
I've seen happier deaths than my birthday
I only have myself in this absence of affection
And the effect of my affection degenerates into more harm

What I show in each text is infinitesimal
Impossible to describe the dimensions of this evil
My experience in madness led me to confirm
The worst disease is mental, not mortal

And here I am like a mannequin behind the glass
Trying to decipher the mechanism of fear
While I watch as others' lives progress
Victim of a judgment with a scale of ice

Morality and education deceived us
Hiding that good and evil are a perception
And the repentance of the saint is nothing but
Not having become a murderer

Shipwrecked in despair
Vestige of its antonym, homonym of misfortune
Waiting for a sudden island
To break against the horizon and dispel this cold mist

But making requests to luck
Is like begging for mercy from death
Like asking for explanations from the absent
Like biting the serpent's fangs

If I breathe, it is to overcome the past
To step on a paradise never trodden
There is no greater hope than the unfound
Nor writing so naked that I feel flayed

I know happiness, I have dreamed it
And the harsh objection of the cold sheet
Because I am not an entity but a state
Only chaos has taken hold of my soul

More tired every day of monotony
Of this impious and unfortunate solitude
Waiting for a letter that no one sends
Writing poetry litanies until late

Because the ink that is bled is not wasted
My art does not come from synthetic inspiration
Because I am a sufferer, not a filmmaker
And the pain I feel is the sustenance of my aesthetics

I still remember my first revelation of death
With an ineffable intensity, I remember it vividly
Like a present, I had a kind of psychotic outbreak
A derealization, at that moment I realized
That I had never really thought about it before

And all previous similar thoughts
Became insignificantly superficial
It was as if for a second
I had witnessed the death of the world