Translated by Marvin Najarro
They don’t even come to be the last of the line, they are those of the subsoil, those of the sewer, those of the ditches by pickax and iron bar who carry in their shoulders the insult and scorn of an indifferent and double standard society that dishonors them.
Those exploited day and night, every day, anywhere.
Those of the weather-beaten back and the cracked hands, those of the wounded soul since time immemorial. Those of the transparent gaze and riddled chest.
The outcasts, the glue sniffers, the marchantes (indian vendor), the indios patas rajadas (indian with a cut foot), the slum whores, the villagers, the laborers, the undocumented, the sunbaked, the nobodies, the unpronounceable. The market vendors, the peddlers. The maids, the masons, the jack of all trades, the crippled. The peon.
Those of the rotten teeth and festering skin. Those of the severed feet between splinters and anxiety. Those who cut their veins with broken bottles amid the chaos and precariousness. Those crazy fuckers roaming the streets, shooting up stories that no one wants to tell. A drink that burns the sore throat of the pariah that cries with desolation, of being nobody in this shitty world, where the important thing is flattery.
The forgotten pariah walks ashamed of nothing, sometimes he wanders dreaming that one day the angst will vanish, that one day hunger will become a horn of plenty, the joy of the rain falling on the hill and of the children jumping playing to dream.
The tired pariah never stops, he confronts any dishonor; he knows that his name is not criminal, even if the swindler points his accusing finger at him. It stands and resists without end, because he is red ember, the burning flame that never goes out, is the free verse in the gale.
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Ilka Oliva Corado @ilkaolivacorado email@example.com