WHEN, AUTHORITATIVELY,
SILENCE WAS ASKED FOR,
THERE WAS A VOICE THAT NEVER FELL:
INDIOS GRISES
Those days, when the tyrant makes me
bend before him,
beauty, nor the ruby, nor the flower,
nor love, nor hatred, nor even the poem exists.
All the enjoyment, all the pleasure that exists,
no one is able to enjoy but the tyrant.
And dreaming is the only thing left for me,
To dream intensely that any day,
when the tyrant dies,
I will be able to live in freedom, to meet love
but I think it will be too late:
if to feel myself free,
I wait for the tyrant to die, I will realise
that the tyrant is me.
