Right now we don't need a poem.
We need something else:
a storm that knocks out the teeth
forgers, for example.
That, suddenly, the asphalt opens up and the
Mephisto's hand and felt body by body
to recognize in the cacophonous crowd
the carnecitas that will make the pots smoke.

At this point the poem demonstrates its
innocence. Hyenas are not scared by poems. Hyenas want publicity and
place its hind legs somewhere
well-lit cubicle inside a
comfortable ministry.

A poem is useless.
But I've always been useless.
That's why I study law
to see if one day she can write something
that does cause hyenas discomfort.

A poem can tell the truth but no one believes it. A pack screams and the shadows of
microphones pounce on them.

The only consolation is that
sooner or later
the hyenas will lose their laughter.
And the poem will still have its teeth intact.