I donít like the fatal outcome,
I never get tired from life.
I donít like any season of the year
When I get ill or when I drink.
I donít like the cold cynicism,
I donít believe in confidence,
Or when a stranger reads my letters,
Looking over my shoulder.
I donít like when half of the talk
Or the conversation is interrupted.
I donít like when one shoots in the back,
Iím also against shooting head-on.
I hate the fabricated gossips,
The worms of doubt, the prick of honors,
Or when I am rubbed the wrong way,
Or the sound of iron on glass.
I donít like the well-fed confidence,
Itís better if the brakes break down,
It annoys me that honor is forgotten,
I hate when the informing is honored.
When I see the broken wings,
I donít feel pity, and hereís why:
I donít like force or impotence,
I pity only Christ on the cross.
I donít like myself when Iím a coward,
It annoys me when the innocents are hurt,
I donít like when one creeps into my soul,
Especially when one spits into it.
I donít like all kinds of arenas,
On them thereís nothing but risk and death.
Let there be great changes to come,
And I wonít like it even more!