Jonas Burgert
Amo el estruendo
de mi calle loca,
aquella afligida
esquina donde
van a morir
los pobres.
Amo la libertina
polvareda
que expande
el asombro
de los que
no se atreven a mirar.
Un hombre pide pan
y el resto,
encoge hombros
agacha cabezas
tuerce cuellos.
Pareciera que se les fuera
a descoyuntar el alma.
No se atreven a desviar
su confortable camino.
Aterrorizados por el miasma
sortean la ciénaga
de su vida
y yo amo
esa esquina mugrienta
y me pringo señores
y acaricio manos sucias
y propago perfume de vida,
bálsamo ineludible.
Amo el estruendo
de mi calle loca
y su abrumador aroma
a carne.
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