The people are saying that I am your enemy,
	That in poetry I give you to the world.

	They lie, Julia de Burgos.  They lie, Julia de Burgos.
The voice that rises in my verses is not your voice:
	it is my voice;
For you are the clothing and I am the essence;
Between us lies the deepest abyss.

	You are the bloodless doll of social lies
And I the virile spark of human truth;

	You are the honey of courtly hypocrisy; not I-
I bare my heart in all my poems.

	You, like your world, are selfish; not I-
I gamble everything to be what I am.

	You are only the serious lady.  Seniora.  Dona Julia.
Not I.  I am life.  I am strength.  I am woman.

	You belong to your husband, your mast.  Not I:
I belong to nobody or to all, for to all, to all
I give myself in my pure feelings and thoughts.

	You curl your hair and paint your face.  Not I:
I am curled by the wind, painted by the sun.

You are the lady of the house, resigned, submissive, 
Tied to the bigotry of men.  Not I:
I am Rocinante, bolting free, wildly 
Snuffing the horizons of the justice of God.

Translated by Grace Schulman