The Puerto Rican Literature Project

I have seen what most people

Talk about in town.

I don’t dare

List what I’ve seen.

It would read like a tale

No one would believe.

If I uttered the wrong word

A child would turn

His face away and stare

At an icicle not far away.

The things I hear of

In some parlors around town

When the lights are dimmed

When the guests sweep their hands down

For a cup of red wine,

And an old man rattles his teeth,

Those things I’ve done.

To myself without shame,

I say,

“They’re not referring to me.”

No one would believe

The twisted paths I’ve taken.

The black deeds like crisp autumn leaves

Curl up and drop in the wind.

No one will ever know

What the deeds mean now to me

So, I go. I go.

I go down the street.

I shrug my shoulders,

Even death is the same to me.