Silvio Rodriguez
Miscellaneous
They Love Me
The murderers want to bury me,
the meals with salt and the mirrors.
The old people have already wanted to bury me
and some other spirited new pine.
They want to bury me where I guess
-they always wanted to hide me far away-.
Object of the funeral processions,
yesterday or today, it seems my destiny.
Save compliments and sweat,
forecasts of ingenuity or decline;
I have been with undertakers for a thousand years
and I know of their lures and occurrences.
Who I need to sink into the flowers
I just need a little patience.
They want to bury my tributes
and certain finicky ladies.
Why would someone need
put candles on me, send me on a trip?
Don't you realize that such a passage
is better suited to broken hope,
to the pulsed sound that runs out,
to the harlequin consumer of horseshoeing?
Tiñosas, lizards, grotesqueries,
boring batracians and shrinks.
the blood still flows in my instrument,
solavaya, birds of malagüero .
Fierce world, I say it on oath:
burying me is going to snore your skin.

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