A veces, cucarachas por las calles,
soy una cucaracha que resiste aún,
fuerte ante las explosiones ardientes.
Animal despreciado por casi tantos,
voy por las calles, soy cucaracha,
insecto con pies y con mis manos.
Cucarachas que aún van por ahí,
negro insecto que musita cosas,
poemas que son también óleos,
acuarelas, dibujos en poemas.
Ese ser que no gusta a tantos,
pero me da igual, aún sigo vivo;
seré pisoteado si pueden verme,
escapando de tantos venenos.
Un bicho humano inservible,
soy todo un insecto humano,
me arrastro por las cloacas,
en los rincones más oscuros.
Pobre pintor y peor poeta,
esa cucaracha que nadie ve,
consumidor de las migajas,
pobre, pisoteado por todos.
--
COCKROACHES
Sometimes, cockroaches along the streets,
I am a cockroach that still resists,
strong against the burning explosions.
An animal despised by almost all,
I walk the streets, I am a cockroach,
an insect with feet and with my hands.
Cockroaches still wandering out there,
black insect whispering small things,
poems that are also oils,
watercolors, drawings in poems.
That being disliked by so many,
but I don’t care — I’m still alive;
I’ll be crushed if they can see me,
escaping from so many poisons.
A useless human bug,
I am a wholly human insect,
I crawl through the sewers,
in the darkest corners.
Poor painter and worse poet,
that cockroach no one sees,
eater of crumbs,
poor one, trampled by all.
---
2 - XI - 2025
---
https://soundcloud.com/carlos-863906007/cucarachas
-
Author:
Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS (
Offline) - Published: November 2nd, 2025 09:53
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments1
A most interesting view of the roach and self. There is a feeling of deprecation in this poem and poetry itself. Poems and people are valued by the educated lovers of art and the cockroach has its place too in the ecology of the planet valued by those that understand and value nature beyond the human sphere. Well written it has a depressive feel and sense of helplessness and hopelessness that leaves the reader feeling the desperation of the bug and of people and the art.
I've come to realize that, toward the end of my life, I can't even bring myself to kill a bug—not even an ant. In the end, what does it matter if they see us as cockroaches? After all, they survive despite everything. It's not so bad, being a cockroach...
Thank you for taking the time to read our poems
You are most welcome my friend and I'm with you Buddhist at heart I will not harm what is living asking pardon for picking a weed from my garden. Everything living has a right as great as mine
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.