1

Oh God
you who do not exist
are so fortunate
not to care
for the whole human race.
Instead I
die every day
anguished, mad
destroyed by others
With the beggar
I die
with the distraught lover
I suffer
with the whore trapped
in a cantina
I weep
then go back to being
alone
gnawing the rock-hard bread of exile
among so many people
I sometimes
love.

Poem by Raúl Gómez Jattin

Translated by Jaime Manrique and Dean Kostos
Published in BOMB Magazine