(Trabajadores en la Plaza Colón marchando hacia la Gobernación reclamado mejoras en sus remuneraciones, fueron masacrados por el Gobierno de Camilo Ponce y sus cadáveres lanzados al río Guayas por cientos y sobre quienes Joaquín Gallegos Lara en 1946 escribió la novela "Cruces sobre el Agua" - Workers in the Plaza Colón marching towards the Government claimed improvements in their salaries, they were massacred by the Government of Camilo Ponce and their bodies thrown into the Guayas River by hundreds and on whom Joaquín Gallegos Lara in 1946 wrote the novel "Crosses on Water", Guayaquil noviembre 15 de 1922)
De las desventuras más miserables,
de la actitud indiferente de la gente,bajo el sol opaco de sus ojos:
... por amor a Dios, me dijo un pordiosero;
¡una moneda por amor a Dios!...
Oxido de tapas de alcantarillas era su cuero,
podredumbre de basurero era su aroma,
su mano dura como el pavimento
sus labios apenas los podía mover
y me quedó mirando el infeliz;
quería que me acercara a tanto trapo
y tocara con el frío de una ayora
el corazón de su pobre esperanza.
De las desventuras más miserables
dio la vuelta al mundo y un día
regresó para recordarme que era cristiano...
Tenía cerdas largas por barba y cabello,
el pecho abierto y los pies hinchados
y en el fondo de sus transparentes pupilas
una lágrima de años
y por sus mejillas morenas corrían
un río de dolor por cada uno
y me quedó mirando el miserable;
quería que me acercara a su repugnante cuerpo
y aliviara con la superficie de un sucre
el alma lastimera de su congoja.
De la actitud indiferente de la gente
nació mi vanidad y creció con ella;
dio la vuelta al mundo y un día
regresó para recordarme que era cristiano...
y mis oídos no escucharon,
mis ojos brillantes se cegaron,
mis piernas fuertes no se acercaron
y lo dejé con la mano extendida...
¡por un sucre, por una moneda!
y a mis espaldas escuché una voz seca:
"Vaya con Dios - me dijo- vaya con Dios".
¡Perdóname Cristo!
regresaré como un pordiosero
para mendigar contigo.
Of the most miserable misadventures,
of the indifferent attitude of the people,
under the dull sun of his eyes:
“For the love of God,” a beggar told me;
“A coin, for the love of God!”
The rust of sewer caps was his skin,
the stench of garbage was his scent,
his hand was as hard as pavement,
his lips could scarcely move,
and the wretched man looked at me—
he wished I would draw near to his rags
and touch, with the cold of a coin,
the heart of his poor hope.
Of the most miserable misadventures
he went around the world, and one day
returned to remind me I was a Christian...
He had long bristles for beard and hair,
an open chest and swollen feet,
and in the depths of his transparent pupils
a tear of many years;
down his dark cheeks ran
a river of pain with each glance,
and the miserable man looked at me—
he wished I would draw near his repugnant body
and ease, with the surface of a sucre,
the pitiful soul of his sorrow.
From the indifferent attitude of the people
my vanity was born and grew with it;
it went around the world, and one day
returned to remind me I was a Christian...
But my ears did not listen,
my bright eyes were blinded,
my strong legs did not approach,
and I left him with his hand extended—
for a sucre, for a coin!
And behind my back I heard a dry voice:
“Go with God,” he told me, “Go with God.”
Forgive me, Christ!
I will return as a beggar,
to beg at your side.
