TO JULIA DE BURGOS

People now murmur that I am your enemy
For they claim that in verses I reveal your essence to the world.

They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie Julia de Burgos.
The voice uplifted in my verses is not your own: it is mine,
For you are garment and I essence;
And the greatest abyss lies between the two.

You are the cold-blooded puppet of social deceit,
And I, the driving splendour of human truth.

You, of courtesan hypocrisies...the honey; not I;
Whose heart is revealed in my poems... all.

You are like your world, selfish; not I;
Who dares all to be what I truly am.

You are merely the implacable, elegant lady;
Not I; I am life, I am strength, I am woman.

You belong to your husband, to your master; not I;
I belong to no one, or to everyone, because to all, everyone,
In wholesome feeling and thought, I give myself.

You curl your locks and paint yourself, not I;
I am curled by the wind; brightened by the sun.

You are homebound, resigned, submissive,
Confined to the whims of men; not I;
I am Rocinante galloping recklessly
Wandering through the boundaries of God's justice.

You are not in command of self; everyone rules you:
You are ruled by your husband, your parents, relatives,
The priest, the seamstress, theatre, club,
The car, jewels, the banquet, champagne,
Heaven and hell and... social hearsay.

But not me, I am ruled by my heart alone,
My sole thought; it is "I" who rules myself.

You, aristocratic blossom; and I, the people's blossom.
You are well provided for, but are indebted to everyone,
While I, my nothingness to no one owe.

You, nailed to the stagnant ancestral dividend;
And I, but one digit in the social cipher.
We are the encroaching, inevitable duel to the death.

When the multitude uncontrolled runs,
The ashes of injustices, burnt, left behind,
And when with the torch of the seven virtues,
The throng to the seven sins gives chase,
I will be against you and against all that is unjust and inhuman.
Upholding the torch... I shall be among the throng.