Biromes y Servilletas [English translation]

In Montevideo there are poets, poets, poets

who without fanfares nor pomps, pomps, pomps

come out from remote lofts, lofts, lofts

of walls of sience of dotted notes.

They come out of poorly covered holes, holes, holes

and not achieved projects, projects, projects

who come back like color ghosts, ghosts, ghosts

to paint your eyebags and beg you to not cry.

They have shared illusions, illusions, illusions

attached nightmares, nightmares, nightmares

pipes of confused words, words, words

on their sad and slow pass through streets and avenues.

They don't pretend fame nor prizes, prizes, prizes

they just move to papers, papers, papers

completely personal experiences, experiences, experiences

very partial experiences that gathered aren't the same.

They talk about the dawn until getting tired, tired, tired

without fearing of plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize

nothing of that matters while they write, write, write

their mania, their craziness their obsessive neurosis.

They walk by the streets the poets, poets, poets

like if they were kites, kites, kites

in a thick sky of melted metal, metal, metal

impregnable, disastrous, terible and boring.

In Montevideo there are pens, pens, pens

unbleeded in lines, lines, lines

of words twisting confused, confused, confused

in thin tissues like alcoholic prisioners.

They walk by the streets writing and seeing and seeing

what they see they say it and by being and by being

poets while they walk, walk, walk

they tell what they see, and fantasize what they don't.

They look at the sky the poets, poets, poets

like if they were arrows, arrows, arrows

thrown at the space that a detour, detour, detour

made them return to nail them in Montevideo.