El Vendedor de Diarios

The newspaper seller
who shouts at my window
has five children
who brighten his mornings,
who pull him, in a leap,
from his poor cot
and take him, running,
through the streets and streets.

The newspaper seller
who shouts at my window,
has a partner
as pure as water,
that sometimes falls,
in torrents from the sky
to water the spike
that the homeland shells.

He also has a sorrow,
and it's fair that he has it,
he's a common man
knows little about letters,
under his arm the world
walks, in silence,
but he doesn't know it
because he doesn't have time.

You have to earn your bread,
he told me one morning,
when I spoke to him about Chile,
about Chile, about the homeland,
me in silk pajamas,
him all in denim,
with a big patch
somewhere on his knee.

Excuse me sir, he said,
the world is shit
and a tear,
bitter with misery,
fell from his face,
brilliant like a jewel,
wetting a newspaper
the size of his dick.

Then he ran away,
maybe because he didn't want
to cry in front of a boy
who could be his son,
and he left me thinking
about the river of blood
that the world has to cry
to kill hunger.

The newspaper seller,
who shouts at my window,
is a man, a man,
What about the others? Almost nothing.