The Prisoner of the Main Street

 

By

 

Francisco Zamora Loboch

 

 

If you know

not to let me out on fiestas,

get me the new loincloth

where you embroidered my initials

with your trembling old fingers.

If you know

that my throat is rusty

because I can’t get out to the plazas

to rehearse my war cries.

I can’t walk around the main streets

bare-chested, defying the winter,

and teaching my tattoos

to the children of this city.

If you could see me,

faithful slave of the bleachers,

vociferous fan in the stadium,

unconditionally loyal friend in the bars.

Mother, if you could see me.