[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 phantasms can be seen
with minor effort,
they decided to call them homeless people.

No one knows
when was it that they passed away,
but they are not among the living anymore;
they aren’t anything but specters,
who pretend to be sleeping on the sidewalks.

If by any distraction,
people walk into the streets they settle,
and come across with such an apparition,
they’ll rush their steps,
sink their look into themselves,
pay attention to the traffic lights,
change the radio station, or
if so much fear allows them,
throw some coins into the air.

Phantasms, always the same color
 – greenish ochre –
seem to be recalling coming times,
and multiply themselves,
flying among trash cans,
bridges, parks, windshields;
sometimes carrying bags
filled with people’s memories
or stones for the Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf.

faithful contributors
to the homeless tax,
expect some gratitude for their selfish gifts,
and phantasms
– always generous –
give them so,
even when in their minds
they really feel sorry knowing that
to be a phantasm
all you need is

a lucky strike.