It seems a lie
that I'm to blame for everything
that has happened in the world
but it's true. They've tried to convince me otherwise-
the psychologists, the sociologists of my time,
they've given reasons of a technical weight
formulated at length and
partially true. But
I know I'm at fault for the pain
I feel here, rampant in the world; for the emptiness
that empties it further. I would've liked to leap
like Juan L. Ortiz or speak out
like Oliverio Girondo.
But, two things: first, they got
the upper hand, and second, neither action really suits me-
and everything begins again. More suffering
ringing in my head like tuning forks and options
I'm well aware of that aren't worth
repeating: first, so I won't be tempted, and second,
because then I'd have to acknowledge
that I never learned
how to make myself understood. And that, that's as sharp
as an attack that makes us swallow our tongues.
I ask then for you to excuse the bad impression,
the exaggerations.