Mis Harapos

Knight of dreams, I have a pen instead of a sword
My word is the fortress of my queen, the illusion
My romantic mane, so straight and badly combed
Is more beautiful than the curled linen braids
I have a cousin, he is rich, powerful, and well-loved
I am poor, I am sick, I think, I write, and I know how to dream
And one night of those bitter nights I have suffered
My rags brushed against his tuxedo as he passed by

He looked at me casually, didn't let his white hand
Join mine, passing on warmth
And he, dressed in his tuxedo, my elegant cousin-brother
Moved away ashamed of his dreamer cousin
The icy wind at times blew mercilessly
I felt cold inside, cold outside, and everything like that
And leaning against a door, I burst into compulsive tears
And crying like a child, like a man, I cursed
I go brushing the frayed edges of my tragic rags
A smirk of irony was pulled from my misery
Also laughing in the puddles are the filthy tadpoles
When they brush against the plumage of a fallen condor
Unmistakable archetype of hypocrites who disguise
With the impeccable cut of a tuxedo or tailcoat
You are the archetype, my pride rejects you
Leave me with my rags
They are nobler
Than your tailcoat