Title
1C
Description
The poem “Why?” by Rubén Darío expresses the frustration from the working class towards the rich elite who ruled by political and economic tyranny. Much of Nicaraguan politics was mired in corruption; the interests of the rich and those in government frequently outweighed the needs of the poor who were forced to do unimaginable tasks in order to survive. This poem, like much of Dario’s writing embodies the strong and flaring emotions of the poor. A translation follows below:
Oh dear! Things are not going well. Society is going out of control. In the next century, we will see the most revolutions that have caused bloodshed. Will only the big survive while the small ones get swallowed up? Perhaps, but we will soon take revenge. Poverty reigns, while the worker carries a burden of curses on their shoulders. Nothing matters except the wretched gold coin. The underprivileged are an eternal flock heading to the slaughterhouse. Don’t you see? You’re dressed up looking filthy rich with your jacket as though it were made of porcelain, like a stuck up madam draped in silk and lace. All the while poor people’s daughters must prostitute themselves from the age of fourteen. They are among the first to be bought. The bandits own the banks and the warehouses. The workshops are the martyrdom of decency. Salary is only paid to the tycoons who crave it, while the unfortunate ones carry on eating stale bread. In the palaces and mansions the rich stuff themselves with fruits and pheasants. Each carriage that passes along the streets crushes the heart of the poor below its wheels. Those gentlemen that appear like cranes; those melancholic men of private means and those potbellied harvesters, they are despicable tormentors. I wished for bloodshed; I wished the hour of rehabilitation and of social justice would come. Is not democracy this frivolous politics that is sung and praised by poets and speakers? Then democracy is damned. This is not democracy; this is an insult and a disgrace. The wretched suffer a multitude of plagues while the rich prevails. The corrupted media announces only the unchanging song of wealth. The great tycoons play writers like violins. The people are ignored, and they are mired and languishing because of those higher up: for men, crime and alcoholism; for women, like mother, like daughter and the blanket that covers them. So how is your worth measured!?! By the penny that is earned, nothing gives comfort besides the bottle. The employers are rough with those who serve them. Those from the city and the country are tyrants. They wring you by the neck. In the country, they insult the labourers, skimping on their day’s wages, feeding mud to their servants and, worst of all, raping their daughters. That is how things are. It’s a wonder they haven’t already blown up the mine that threatens everyone, because, it should have already blown up.
The same fire burns everywhere. The spirit of the lower classes will be reborn in a relentless, impending vengeance. The wave down below will topple the mass above it. The Commune, The International Association, nihilism are all minute, what’s missing is the enormous and real coalition! All these tyrants will hit rock bottom: political tyranny, economic tyranny, religious tyranny, because the priest is also allied to the tyrants. He sings his Tedeum and prays his Paternoster more for the millionaire then for the wretched. But the signs of cataclysm are already in the sight of humanity and yet they do not see it; what they will see is the horror of the day of wrath. There will not be a force capable of holding back the torrent of the final revenge. They will have to sing a new Marseillaise which, like the bugles of Jericho, destroying the dwelling of the loathsome. The fire will illuminate the ruins. The knife of the poor will slit the throats and guts of the hated. Women of the masses will raise their fists at the blond-headed conceited virgins. The barefooted man’s leg will stain the rug of the affluent. The statues of the crooks that oppressed the meek will be shattered, and the sky will show a fearful joy, between the thunder of the redeeming catastrophe, the punishment of the haughty delinquents, the supreme vengeance and terror of the drunken misery. But who are you? Why are you crying?
My name is Juan Lanas and I have not a penny to my name.
Oh dear! Things are not going well. Society is going out of control. In the next century, we will see the most revolutions that have caused bloodshed. Will only the big survive while the small ones get swallowed up? Perhaps, but we will soon take revenge. Poverty reigns, while the worker carries a burden of curses on their shoulders. Nothing matters except the wretched gold coin. The underprivileged are an eternal flock heading to the slaughterhouse. Don’t you see? You’re dressed up looking filthy rich with your jacket as though it were made of porcelain, like a stuck up madam draped in silk and lace. All the while poor people’s daughters must prostitute themselves from the age of fourteen. They are among the first to be bought. The bandits own the banks and the warehouses. The workshops are the martyrdom of decency. Salary is only paid to the tycoons who crave it, while the unfortunate ones carry on eating stale bread. In the palaces and mansions the rich stuff themselves with fruits and pheasants. Each carriage that passes along the streets crushes the heart of the poor below its wheels. Those gentlemen that appear like cranes; those melancholic men of private means and those potbellied harvesters, they are despicable tormentors. I wished for bloodshed; I wished the hour of rehabilitation and of social justice would come. Is not democracy this frivolous politics that is sung and praised by poets and speakers? Then democracy is damned. This is not democracy; this is an insult and a disgrace. The wretched suffer a multitude of plagues while the rich prevails. The corrupted media announces only the unchanging song of wealth. The great tycoons play writers like violins. The people are ignored, and they are mired and languishing because of those higher up: for men, crime and alcoholism; for women, like mother, like daughter and the blanket that covers them. So how is your worth measured!?! By the penny that is earned, nothing gives comfort besides the bottle. The employers are rough with those who serve them. Those from the city and the country are tyrants. They wring you by the neck. In the country, they insult the labourers, skimping on their day’s wages, feeding mud to their servants and, worst of all, raping their daughters. That is how things are. It’s a wonder they haven’t already blown up the mine that threatens everyone, because, it should have already blown up.
The same fire burns everywhere. The spirit of the lower classes will be reborn in a relentless, impending vengeance. The wave down below will topple the mass above it. The Commune, The International Association, nihilism are all minute, what’s missing is the enormous and real coalition! All these tyrants will hit rock bottom: political tyranny, economic tyranny, religious tyranny, because the priest is also allied to the tyrants. He sings his Tedeum and prays his Paternoster more for the millionaire then for the wretched. But the signs of cataclysm are already in the sight of humanity and yet they do not see it; what they will see is the horror of the day of wrath. There will not be a force capable of holding back the torrent of the final revenge. They will have to sing a new Marseillaise which, like the bugles of Jericho, destroying the dwelling of the loathsome. The fire will illuminate the ruins. The knife of the poor will slit the throats and guts of the hated. Women of the masses will raise their fists at the blond-headed conceited virgins. The barefooted man’s leg will stain the rug of the affluent. The statues of the crooks that oppressed the meek will be shattered, and the sky will show a fearful joy, between the thunder of the redeeming catastrophe, the punishment of the haughty delinquents, the supreme vengeance and terror of the drunken misery. But who are you? Why are you crying?
My name is Juan Lanas and I have not a penny to my name.
Language
Spanish
Original Format
Poster