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Murillo. "Niño espulgándose"

Murillo. “The Young Beggar”

The child inside me wants to make
a last minute declaration:
it wasn’t completely under my control
the weapon that I suddenly shot at close range,
blowing out the brains of those most beloved;
nor the knife that pierced a couple
of hearts in a careless way;
nor the sword used to sever the arms
of friends who loved me most.
It wasn’t me, it wasn’t.
It was this child who still live in some
lost corner of this human
misery of four decades
who barely would hold on himself
but for his well-aimed stabs,
his crazy raids inside
my head made to fit
into the universal and ecumenical reason
of a stoicism proclaimed
to right and left,
but riddled by rhetoric benighted
of itself.
It was this child that never died
in spite of the read precepts,
learnt around the nearly
mystical fire that scarcely concealed
the shadows beyond the main
artery feeding the soul’s veins:
sad ghost of a supposed
wisdom, maturity and calm, all perfect.
This child who survived the collapse
of an entire life seeking for the right path,
with the faith put in ancient voices
speaking of what is and is not.
This child was, not me.
I only was the poor pariah of the letters,
of the well-woven thoughts
when the opportunity deserved it and it was needed.
Of the texts exuding a
seeming beauty and freshness,
of literary horrors put at the order
of the fittest metaphor.
Forgive the ignorant of himself
if the time of forgiveness is not gone yet;
ignorant of his own nature,
he took on more than he really was be able;
forgive him although no other reason
than the regard for that child
who never left him completely,
despite himself,
who nobody could see for fear of the own
expectation of a nearly perfect being
was disappointed in its most intimate center.
Forgive him although no other reason
than mercy of seeing him suffering
as a child.