Espejo:
Llueven
falsos profetas.
Visten
camisetas negras, tienen negras ideas, negras las mentes y blancas manos. Manos
cuidadas, manos sin callos.
Hablan
los falsos profetas con falsas voces sobre verdades antiguas. Yo no los creo
porque nunca bailan, ni se despeinan, ni engordan.
Están
en lo alto de la montaña, el vértigo les embriaga, se sienten fuertes y muy
sinceros. Me pregunto si dudan, si ven el dolor en los ojos de aquellos a los
que desprecian, si apartan alguna vez la vista del espejo.
Mirror:
It's raining fake prophets.
They dress in black t-shirts, have black ideas, black minds and white hands. Nice hands, without calluses.
Fake prophets speak with fake voices about old truths. I don´t believe them because they never dance, their hair is always nice and they never get fat.
They are on top of the mountain, intoxicating with vertigo, feeling strong and very honest.
I wonder if they doubt, if they see the pain in the eyes of those they despise.
If sometimes they look away in the mirror.
They dress in black t-shirts, have black ideas, black minds and white hands. Nice hands, without calluses.
Fake prophets speak with fake voices about old truths. I don´t believe them because they never dance, their hair is always nice and they never get fat.
They are on top of the mountain, intoxicating with vertigo, feeling strong and very honest.
I wonder if they doubt, if they see the pain in the eyes of those they despise.
If sometimes they look away in the mirror.