A stench sticks in the canefields:
A mix of blood and body, the permeating
foulness of a petal.
Among the coconut palms the tombs are full
of pulverized bone, of hushed rattles.
The delicate satrap chats
with wine glasses, chokers and cords of gold.
The little palace shines like a watch
And the quick puffs of laughter
pierce the corridors
gathering voices of the dead
with blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping is hidden like a plant
whose seed falls ceaselessly on the ground
which, without light, makes the big blind leaves burgeon.
This rancor has been crafted scale by scale,
blow by blow, in the terrible swamp waters
with a snout full of silence and slime.
from Canto General
(translation my own)