And the last of these is a self-portrait as still life.
The newspaper on the table confessing its lies.
The melon decided, plump unspoiled.
Trying to forget that it was ever
wrapped up in anything so scandalous, so banal.
Already out, the knife, confident lover.
It smiles, it knows how attractive it is to sunlight.
On the wall, a guitar in shadow remembering hands.
I don't come into the picture.
Our poet's fellow exiles it's your scene now and welcome.
You take up the guitar. .
You cut up the melon.
But when are you going to roll up the newspaper,
swat the flies, take out all the garbage?
Mañana, always mañana.
[APPLAUSE]