My translation of a poem by Jaime Sabines.
What the hell can I do with my knee, with this leg so long and so skinny, with my arms, with my tongue, with my weak eyes? What can I do in this tangle of imbeciles with good intentions? What about with corrupt thinkers Or sweet girls who want poetry, not a man? What can I do among the poets made uniform by academia or Communism? What, among sellers or politicians or shepherds of souls? What the hell can I do, Tarumba, if I’m no saint, or hero, or criminal, or admirer of art, or pharmacist, or rebel? What can I do if I can do anything But just want to watch and watch?
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