NEW YORK (OFFICE AND DENOUNCES) (Courtesy of Kristofor Traenkner)
To Fernando It guards
(Translated through Alta Vista)
Underneath the multiplications
there is a drop of duck blood.
Underneath the divisions
there is a drop of sailor blood.
Underneath the sums, a river of tender blood;
a river that comes singing
by the dormitories of the suburbs,
and it is silver, cement or breeze
in the lain dawn of New York.
The mountains exist, you are it
And the eyeglasses for the wisdom,
you are it But I have not come to see the sky.
I have come to see the cloudy blood,
the blood that takes the machines to the cataracts
and the spirit to the language of the cobra.
Every day they are killed in New York
four million ducks,
five million pigs,
two thousand doves for the taste of the dying ones,
a million cows,
a million lambs
and two million roosters
that they leave to the done skies pieces.
More bond to sob sharpening the knife
or to assassinate to the dogs in the hallucinating huntings
that to resist at dawn
the interminable milk trains,
the interminable trains of blood,
and the trains of maniatadas roses
by the perfume retailers.
The ducks and the doves
and the pigs and the lambs
they put his drops of blood
underneath the multiplications;
and the terrible howls of the squeezed cows
they fill of pain the valley
where the Hudson overflows with oil.
I denounce all people
that he ignores other half,
irredimible half
that it raises his cement mounts
where they annoy the hearts
of the animalitos that forget
and where we will fall all
in the last celebration of the drills.
You escupo in the face.
Other half listens to me
devorando, singing, flying in its purity
like the children in porteras
that they take fragile palitos
to the hollows where they oxidize
the antennas of the insects.
It is not hell, is the street.
It is not the death, is the store of fruits.
There are a inasibles world of broken rivers and distances
in the patita of that cat broken by the automobile,
and I hear I sing of the lombriz
in the heart of many children.
oxide, ferment, shaken earth.
Earth you yourself that you swim by the numbers of the office.
What I am going to do, to order the landscapes?
To order the loves that soon are photographies,
that soon they are pieces of wood and whiffs of blood?
No, no; I denounce,
I denounce the conspiracy
of these desert offices
that they do not broadcast the agonies,
that they erase the programs of the forest,
and I offer myself to being eaten by the squeezed cows
when their shouts fill the valley
where the Hudson overflows with oil.