One day
the dwarves will rebel
against Gulliver.
All the small-hearted men
armed with sticks and sickles
will assault the only giant
with their little grudges, with their bile,
with their rage of shaved and short-sighted dwarfs.
Poor you, Gulliver, poor you,
the day when all the dwarfs unite their tools and their hatred, their customs, their vices, their wallets, their schedules. They will not be able to, they will not be able to,
they will not be able to forgive you for being tall.
For them, generosity is nothing more than a luxury that they cannot afford,
they live fueled by the envy that inhabits them in form usual.
Watch them stir suspiciously behind their horn-rimmed glasses.
They will accuse you, they will accuse you, they will accuse you:
of being the one-eyed one in the country of the blind,
of being who speaks in the land of the mute,
of being the madman in the land of the sane,
of walking in the land of the tired,
of being wise in the land of the foolish ,
of being bad in the country of the good,
of having fun in the country of the serious,
of being free in the country of prisoners,
of being alive in the country of the dwarves,
to be the voice that cries in the desert.

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