There are monarchs of palaces
with secrets in garitas,
who hide the infinities
beauties of their topazes.
Deny goodness and spaces
amparado en: I rule!
Poor kings yawning
between sceptres of tin!
What good is money for them
with stubborn jealousy ruminating?
Love lives in prison
ambushed by censors.
The guardians? Sinners.
Just eunuchs with scripts.
Little do they know of passions;
live thinking about their pay:
my ration that strays
an appetite forgotten
When, at its premiere, castrated,
He swore loyalty in the saga.
There is silent rebellion
in closed bars:
beautiful and tired birds
with gruesome claustrophobia.
The harem can’t stand and glossy
the verses of the walls,
crumbling capitals
of a superb structure.
Loyalty little endures
with nothing faithful eunuchs.
There are screams near the throne.
Goes the king asking for heads,
while chewing cherries,
on the edge of the chunk.
Greyish body. A monkey
that in little or nothing is estimated.
Love comes to the top
when in freedom expands
for a great, great world,
that the secret dismisses.
The eunuchs? They recover
Mutilated faculties
in well armed clinics.
Their partners are waiting for them.
There are kings that are cremated
in palaces that claudiate.
The lovers? They vindicate
freedom, no secrets.
The decrees are burned.
Crows no longer replicate.
.
Copyright@Jorge Jorge Gonzalez
