On the sidewalks of the early morning
dance with the porters their milonga in the sun,
with the circles under your eyes, heart,
a day after what the wind took.
The secretaries of the offices
have a snack on the corner
and when they come down from the moon to the hard drive to crack,
with the dream of the reverse and a future without tomorrow, they cry
blue plastic tears rolling down the stairs,
tribes of the southern seas west of the border,
cigarette paper lips, wise people who know nothing,
shipwrecked in the cathedral, customary cobwebs
to spend the night in the glass.
Surgeons of disappointments
they cut off the joy,
the veins of dawn store cold blood
and every Monday the new day is born dead.
The pencil corner of your mouth
touches the grievances of the carmine,
the pimps are placed with toilet the toupee
and the Romeos delay and the Juliettes fall out of love.
Tears of blue plastic rolling down the stairs,
tribes of the southern seas west of the border,
cigarette paper lips, wise people who know nothing,
shipwrecked in the cathedral, mutinous cobwebs ...
Tears of blue plastic with farewell flavor.
When will the bus cross this dead end?
Lips of smoking paper, wise men who know nothing,
hospital flower petals, mutinous cobwebs ...
Only among all we can make this a better place :)