Translated by James Boothroyd
Nobody believes him and he smiles.
He says: "I seek death."
He thinks of him, of Ruiz,
blameless and without a care.
Why fear helpless nothingness?
Why invent rebukes?
It's very simple.
That guy, Ruiz, is somewhat tired,
sleepy, with the vein, pointless illusion
of sleeping through an eternal dream
(like the love for his wife
like the happiness he desires for his children).
And he does not lie to himself.
He tests the shine of the razor
against his throat
and for a long time imagines the drop of blood
and the next, many,
escaping from his neck,
from his wrists
like children from school days.
Inside, Ruiz smiles
victorious and satisfied.
He invented Sundays.
Copyright © 1996 Bernardo Ruiz