by Tomás Sánchez Hidalgo

It’s seven in the morning
while we navigate through the Leviathan,
without a compass,
and with a wicked Tyrannosaurus
affixed to the very center
of the galleon’s deck,
in the middle of a tsunami.
It’s that simple.
The captain and his command cadre
have suffered their particular Metamorphosis
and, upon exiting a dream
disconcerting and tumultuous,
they have turned into the omniscient pigs
of Animal Farm,
but at the same time they
have once again changed the script,
and, instead of raising mastiffs in the background,
they’ve opted for a Tyrannosaurus
to feed only
a scandalous tax burden,
cement shoes
for the economy,
of breadcrumbs
delivered in galleys
to begin draws for the rebellion on board.
George Soros predicted to us the typhoon
at the end of the tsunami,
and you have nothing that says otherwise,
but (not everything is rotten
in the state of Denmark)
the love of the sea is what is inherited.

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