The rain enters your house,
Poor poet, come in and steal a little of your joy.
Fall on the only worthy carpet that
you found, rolled up in the dawn, like
an angora viper
in a corner of the container. You have to go to
work, poor poet, what are you talking about?
Jupiter and the roses, and the streets
that the people shake against the tyrants of the
past and present, you who weave together
the teeth of the word in your mouth,
you look at the malicious rain that is going to bite
your shoes worn out from sidewalks and
of days that are not enough with his
tip to pay for gas and electricity services.
The rain runs down the floor of your house
like a short tired wave
that is going to break at your feet. You look at the street
and you see a horse pass by. Then you sit down,
you who do not yet have bread, to write a
ode to the horse in the rain.