El Concierto [English translation]

It was a concert of art music

and were being reborn the hidden forces

of the old great masters,

the eternal, the immortals.

It was a concert, the finest enjoyment,

it was a contact with something divine.

It was solemn, almost scared,

it was a pleasure of a most high level.

Flutes, violins, trumpets, cymbals,

were sounding among neckties, rings,

among pockets full of money,

among the keys of some american car.

Among necklaces, wigs, pendants,

among fur coats, among gloves;

among lawyers and some notary

and two or three piano teachers.

The people heard with lots of excitement:

they were all at the edge of the shock.

Because the serious, fine music,

gives goosebumps.

It was deep, it was something sublime.

Tell me if isn't true, tell me,

if the director despite being young

wasn't the image of the very Beethoven.

It was the Eden for who assisted:

it sounded just like they wanted,

it sounded so arty, so high-leveled,

that it had a sad and fatal outcome.

Because little by little people were rising

going up by the effect of the art.

They were maybe looking for the level

corresponding to that pure music.

And the seats were left empty:

all the people were going up and up,

always higher in the air taken

by that supreme and high-leveled art.

While the orchestra was playing,

everybody was crashing their heads

against the ceiling almost at the same time,

all their skulls were left broken.

And by force of the headbutts

the theater started to fall apart.

All the orchestra was left buried,

was left covered and mutilated.

And the listeners were restlessly

rising, but by another cause:

it wasn't the art that rose them,

it was death who was taking them.