Translated from Portuguese by Dan Hanrahan
I know you
by your scent,
by your clothes,
by your cars,
by your rings and,
of course,
by your love
of money.
By your love
of money
that some
distant ancestor
left you
as inheritance.
I know you
by your scent.
I know you
by your scent
and by the dollar signs
that embellish
your eyes that
hardly blink
for your
love of money.
For your love
of money
and all that
negates life:
the asylum, the
cell, the border.
I know you
by your scent.
I know you
by the scent
of pestilence and horror
that spreads
wherever you go
—I know you
by your love
of money.
Under your love
of money,
God is a
father so cheap
he charges
for his miracles.
I know you
by your scent.
I know you
by the scent,
of sulfur,
which you can’t mask
which clings to
all that you touch
for the love
of money.
For your love
of money,
you respond
with loathing
to a smile, to pleasure,
to poetry.
I know you
by your scent.
I know you
by your scent.
Smell one of you and
I’ve smelled all
of you who
survive only
by your love
of money.
For the love
of money,
you turn even
your own daughters
to hard currency,
to pure gold.
I know you
by your scent.
I know you
by your scent.
I know you
by the stench
of your rotting
corpse that
somehow
walks
for its love
of money.