Already the people murmur that I am your enemy they say that in verse I give the world your me.
lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.
Who rises in my verses is not your voice is my voice;
because you are the dressing and the essence is me;
and the most profound abyss is spread between the two.
You are cold doll of societal hypocrisy,
and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.
You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; I;
in all my poems I undress my heart.
You are like your world, selfish, I do not;
every game to me be what I am.
You are only the great lady great lady;
I do, I am life, strength, woman.
You belong to your husband, your love, I do not;
I belong to nobody, or all, because everyone, everyone,
in my clean feeling and I think I am.
You curl your hair and paint yourself, I do not;
curls my hair the wind to the sun paints me.
You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,
tied to the prejudices of men, I do not, I'm
runaway Rocinante
sniffing horizons of justice of God.
You in yourself have no say; to you all send you;
in your husband, your parents, your relatives,
the priest, the dressmaker, theater, casino,
the car, jewelry, the banquet, champagne,
heaven and hell, and tell what social.
Not in me, in me only my heart, my only thought
, who governs in me is me. You
flower of aristocracy, and I the flower of the people.
you in you have everything and everyone you owe,
while I, my nothing I owe anybody.
You nailed the static ancestral dividend,
and I figure a one in the social divider, we are the duel
approaching death fatal.
When the multitudes run alboratas
leaving behind ashes of burned injustices,
and with the torch of the seven virtues, seven sins
after, run the crowds,
against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,
I will go and through them with the torch in his hand.
Julia de Burgos, Puerto Rico.
every game to me be what I am.
You are only the great lady great lady;
I do, I am life, strength, woman.
You belong to your husband, your love, I do not;
I belong to nobody, or all, because everyone, everyone,
in my clean feeling and I think I am.
You curl your hair and paint yourself, I do not;
curls my hair the wind to the sun paints me.
You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,
tied to the prejudices of men, I do not, I'm
runaway Rocinante
sniffing horizons of justice of God.
You in yourself have no say; to you all send you;
in your husband, your parents, your relatives,
the priest, the dressmaker, theater, casino,
the car, jewelry, the banquet, champagne,
heaven and hell, and tell what social.
Not in me, in me only my heart, my only thought
, who governs in me is me. You
flower of aristocracy, and I the flower of the people.
you in you have everything and everyone you owe,
while I, my nothing I owe anybody.
You nailed the static ancestral dividend,
and I figure a one in the social divider, we are the duel
approaching death fatal.
When the multitudes run alboratas
leaving behind ashes of burned injustices,
and with the torch of the seven virtues, seven sins
after, run the crowds,
against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,
I will go and through them with the torch in his hand.
Julia de Burgos, Puerto Rico.
