Humor linyera
Bersuit Vergarabat
Tramp Humor
It seems that actions sleep,
under a pile of boring words,
crushed by wet newspapers,
covering the tramp from the morning dew.
It provokes me the tireless sunrise,
that provokes the tireless sunrise.
Assuming that ideas fall,
behind labyrinthine, and huge shelves,
libraries reeking of names,
of grand creators, of memorable stories.
Who tried to create a better world,
found no trophies but inquisition.
I thought that books contained,
those souls devoted to the absolute search,
applying their energy and genius,
to stir up the lives of beings to come.
Devoid of art and also of love,
crowded with gods but without religion.
Yet this life without forgetting,
of the scent of a flower reborn in the granite,
I perceive that today even the wind got tired,
and the rain puts music to sad thoughts.
And the tramp laughs at unhappy people,
drinking his wine with no future or end.
And the tramp laughs at happy people,
toasting to failure and no... wanting to leave.
