La Panza

The world under fire, armageddon on a budget,
The last duet of a graduate turned singer-songwriter,
Broken light in the mirror, momentary lovers
Who in crude solitudes, seek love.

And fear, running through my arms
Not knowing if I'm dealing, with God or with the Devil,
If my dreams are enough, to turn this silence,
Into your palace, your palace.

The rain that doesn't wet, faith in broken crosses,
Time in the barricades, gray hair and the clock,
The children who worship, a clown in the news,
Telling us that the reign of the good ones is over.

And the kiss, you leave on my forehead,
Commands me from heaven, to wait for your return,
If my dreams are not enough, to give you a thousand I love yous,
I would have to give you, something more than a song.

And maybe you can accept,
That I am not and will not be a good deal,
An artist of subtleties defending the outskirts,
A poet of the modern golden age.

An athletic aspiring federal deputy,
A prisoner, a spendthrift, a good friend,
Who doesn't sing pretending, that someone wants to listen to me,
I am a belly with a guitar, that has now become devoted to you,
From your belly that in photos, does not allow itself to be portrayed.

The storm clouds, do not knock on the door,
Outside the sirens with their scandalous voice,
Death strolling over the sidewalks,
Dressed almost always, in desperation.

And the smoke, vomits in its signals,
That you are fine and by now, surely you're hungry,
If my dreams are not enough, to cook up a plea for you,
You will have to settle, once again for rice.

And maybe you can accept,
That I am not and will not be a broken mutt,
A voyeur of misery, a true magician,
A Saint George rising from the mud,
A scribe of life, of all the others,
A prisoner, a spendthrift, a good friend,
Who doesn't sing pretending, that someone wants to listen to me,
I am a belly with a guitar, that has now become devoted to you,
From your belly that in photos, does not allow itself to be portrayed.

I am a belly, searching in the void for yours, to end the cold,
And for your belly to be the sea, where I can be happy,
And the paper with which at night, I will write thousands of letters, to Paris,
To Paris.