That tiny hope, a Thumbelina hope,
Those high slopes battered by autumn rains,
Those train dreams you used to commute to;
That fate of yours, foretold by fortune tellers,
Promising voyages around the world
And beyond, the longest journey, with
Farewells and people and snowy landscapes
Where each mile is a different sky,

The hope, the faith, how old,
The youth determination,
The one you could have been
Given a different rythm and a stroke of good luck,

That tiny hope, a Thumbelina hope
Does not fit inside the envelope
With dirty notes from so many dirty hands
That pay me in cash, monthly,
To keep the accounts and just let
Life slip, drag, drip
Like rancid oil.

(Translated from Spanish Mario Benedetti´s Sueldo, by Amparo Perez Arrospide, c.2008)

by Amparo Perez Arrospide

Comments (1)

Romans use to pay SALT as a wage.