neruda 59

they who were hunted by life and tagged by death,
who never had time to breathe, are haunted now
as they wither in their caskets, trapped under
the celebration of their funeral march.

they lie in mute darkness behind the arrogance
of pompous asses trotting in show, eternally enslaved
in restless sleep, buried by the chaotic weight of oral vanity:
a brutal cacophony for the quiet and humbly broken.

the living live to feast upon the dead and a banquet of miseries
is laid upon the stage with the corpses: birds who flew,
pigs, and other creatures who lived to speak.

at last! they had long awaited this moment of death,
now disguise their schadenfreude with mocking songs:
they have the most beautiful voice, now that he cannot sing.