Why do I have to die, Adelaida,
in this jungle
where I myself fed
the wild animals
where I hear even my own voice
in the awful chorus of the street.

Why here where we wanted trees
but ended up with vines
where we dreamt rivers
but woke up sick
in the middle of swamps,

in this place which we entered
like innocent, foolish children
into a trap, into the quicksand
with its cellophane banner
that we tore apart applauding
the swindlers.

Why do I have to die
not in my homeland
but in the ruins of this country
I hardly know.