The Puerto Rican Literature Project

Fortunately they can’t read,

they can’t read,

unicorns can’t read,

because if they could read

they’d surely fall in a well

and never again see

another dawn swell.

Their thing is singing,

singing with their magical neighing,

in their astonishing flying,

singing, singing, and singing,

you’ll never see a unicorn 

with a bible hung from its horn

or wearing glasses, 

never have they eyedrops worn.

No, no they can’t read.

They couldn’t care less.

They feel no concern,

that’s just for us,

who are silly and never learn;

we, who never scratch our nails thus,

against the moon’s smiling bust;

we, who need a looking glass to track

those unicorns who live laid-back

because their thing is to sing, sing, and sing,

and with their song they bring

sweet dreams of children

who will soon learn to read,

to read and listen

to doubts and not believe

that there are unicorns

who live free of these forms,

and fortunately can’t read.

They can’t read,

for if they read

they’d surely, while reading,

fall dead without warning.