translated by William Jay Smith

I was given at birth this odd triangular

face, the sugared cone that you see now,

the figurehead jutting from some pirate prow,

framed by trailing strands of moonlight hair.

Disjointed shape I’m destined to carry around

and thrust out steadily through endless days,

wounding the retinas of those who gaze

on the twisted shadow I cast upon the ground.

Disowned by the family from which I came,

who am I? Earth conspires to turn me back,

the white race and the yellow, the redskin and the black,

till even to the species I lay little claim.

And only when—a self-inflicted woman—

I cry out; only when I face the cold;

and only when by time I’m stained and soiled

do they find me beautiful: and call me human.