Surrounded by guards,
I can’t admit that I’m heartsick,
love-torn, homesick, lonely . . .
so we speak of verses, the president expressing
his admiration for my poetry.
Then he asks: ¿Qué deseas?
What do you wish?
This surprising question makes me hesitant.
I long to tell the truth about the green-eyed girl
and my dream of immediate marriage,
but I fear the same reaction I encountered before
among poets and senators—insulting laughter.
So what should a poet boy request?
Una buena posición social, I venture timidly,
imagining that “a good social position” will change
adult minds about everything else, because wealth
is so often mistaken for wisdom.