Oda a un Millonario Muerto

I met a millionaire.
He was a Rancher, king
of gray plains
where horses would get lost.

We walk around his home,
his Gardens,
the pool with a white tower
and waters
to bath a city.
He took off his Shoes,
put his feet,
with some
grim severity,
in the green pool.

I do not know why
one by one
he went discarding
all his women.
They
would dance in Europe
or were quickly traversing the snow aboard a
sledding in Alaska.

He told me how
as a child
he used to sell newspapers
and steal bread.
Now his newspapers
stormed the trembling streets,
beating people with its news
and stated with emphasis
only his opinions.

He had banks, ships,
sins and sorrows.

Sometimes with paper,
pen, memory,
he would sank into his money
counting,
adding, dividing,
multiplying things
until he fell asleep.

I think
the man was never
capable of getting out of his wealth
- it permeated him,
it gave him
air, abstract color --
and he would see himself
inside
as a blind mollusk
surrounded
by an impenetrable wall.

Sometimes, in his eyes
I saw a fire
cold, distant
something desperate that was dying.

I never knew if we were enemies.

He died one night
near Tucumán.
In the disaster
burned his powerful Rolls
as close to the river
the catafalque
of a
dark religion.

I know
all
dead are equal,
but I do not know
I think
that
man in his own way with death
he ceased being a poor prisoner.

-g