TO JULIA DE BURGOS
Julia de Burgos The word is out that I am your enemy that in my poetry I am giving you away. They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos. That voice that rises in my poems is not yours: it is my voice; you are the covering and I the essence; and between us lies the deepest chasm. You are the frigid doll of social falsehood, and I, the virile sparkle of human truth. You are the honey of courtly hypocrisy, not I; I bare my heart in all my poems. You are selfish, like your world, not I; I gamble everything to be what I am. You are but the grave lady, ladylike; not I; I am life, and strength, and I am woman. You belong to your husband, your master, not I; I belong to no one or to everyone, because to all, to all I give myself in pure feelings and in my thoughts. You curl your hair, and paint you face, not I; I am curled by the wind, painted by the sun. You are lady of the house, resigned and meek, tied to the prejudices of men, not I; I am Rocinante, running headlong, smelling the horizons of the justice of God. |
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