Santa Fe de Bogotá

They stop on corners to greet each other
gossip, murmur and forecast
the coming week’s profits.

Neither the signs of death
castigating the streets
nor the smell of tainted soul
wafting from the harsh noons of March
mean anything to them.

Life staggers on
and the thief and the minister
sleep a sleep that has lasted
already five centuries.

Only the mad, howling in the plazas
are happy.

Traslated from Spanish by Rowena Hill