Me Quieren

I
The murderers want to bury me,
the meals with salt and the mirrors.
The old ones have already wanted to bury me
and some other spirited new pine.

They want to bury me where I foresee
-they always wanted to hide me far away-.
Object of funereal processions,
yesterday or today, seems to be my destiny.

Save yourselves compliments and sweats,
genius or decadence predictions;
I have been with undertakers for a thousand years
and I know their lures and witticisms.
Whoever needs to bury me among the flowers
only needs a little patience.

II
The tributes want to bury me
and certain dainty ladies.
Why is it that someone needs
to light candles for me, send me on a journey?
Don't they realize that such a journey
fits better with broken hope,
with the fading sound of a pulse,
with the harlequin consumer of the iron?

Lice, lizards, grotesques,
bored toads and madmen.
the blood still runs in my instrument,
by the way, birds of ill omen.
Fierce world, I say it in an oath:
burying me will be a tough job.