I write to the heels,

we have been unfair to them,
they have sung (like Baldomero) to the pancreas
and the epiplons, to the blue or grey hair,
to the rotund breasts and the sex split in
the storm, to the shoulders like towers...
But I ask, what height could anyone have
without the firm abbey of the heels.
The man would crawl
the woman would crawl
they would be like snakes zigzagging on the
asphalt, if it were not for the noble heels.
We sing to the upright beauty,
to what shines,
but damn it if the heels are not
the most exploited proletarians in the world,
they are the mine where the miner dies
the factory where the worker is alienated
they are the subcutaneous workshop where the girls
sew the great brands that the metropolises sell. Let them sing to marriage and to loneliness,
to the efficient neck, to the mouth, to the back,
to the stars and to the grasshoppers.
I sing to the heels of the world
which are what give us the dignity
of standing still.