[esta es la versión en inglés del poema IndiGentes, hecha por mi, que - aunque no soy angloparlante - tengo más o menos claro el asunto, sin caer en la trampa de las traducciones literales]
In a certain city
where ghosts can effortless be seen
they decided to call them homeless people.
No one knows
when was it that they passed away,
they are not anymore living souls
they aren’t anything but specters
who pretend to be sleeping on the sidewalks.
If by any distraction
people get into the streets they live in
and come across with such an apparition
they’ ll rush their steps
deepen their look into themselves
into the traffic lights,
change the radio station, or
if so much fears allow them
throw some coins in the air.
Ghosts, always the same color
- greenish ochre –
seem to call out coming times,
and multiply themselves
flying among trashcans
bridges, parks, windshields,
sometimes carrying bags
filled with people’s memories
or stones for the Little Red-Cap’s wolf.
to the homeless trust
expect some gratitude for their selfish gifts,
- always generous –
give them so,
even when in their minds
they really fell sorry knowing that
to be a ghost
all you need is
a stroke of fortune.