Brother,you who have the light, tell me mine.
I am like a blind man. I go without direction and fumble along.
I go under tempests and storms,
blind with fantasy and crazy with harmony.

That is my malady. Dreaming. Poetry
is the iron jacket with a thousand bloody points
I wear upon my soul. The bloodstained thorns
spill the drops of my melancholy. 

And so I go, blind and crazy, through this bitter world;
at times it seems to me that the path is very long,
and at times that it’s very short…

And in this back-and-forth between eagerness and agony, 
I am full of woes I can hardly bear.
Don’t you hear the drops of my melancholy falling?

Ruben Dario

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