Un Hombre Común

I was, a child like everyone else,
With mud on my shoes, and a letter to Santa Claus,
With an imaginary friend, and in dreams a Dragon,
My parents' hope, my grandparents' love,
And the wish that the night would take me to a better day.

I grew up, like I think everyone does,
With Don Gato, The Flintstones, superheroes, and soccer,
With Sunday markets, and toys from Hong Kong,
With my brother and his stories, and my sister in a bottle,
And a couple of hours in the afternoon, to run around in the sun.

Just a common child.
Who was amazed when it started to rain,
And got up shortly after falling,
With unanswered questions,
And answers that he could never understand.

I was, a young man like everyone else,
With a first girlfriend who suddenly left,
With a top without socks, long hair and rock 'n' roll,
With a thousand dreams without a suitcase, and a stubborn counselor,
Who believed that I could one day be an administrator.

I grew up, like I think everyone does,
With a Mafalda book and the old Playa Girón,
With a thousand doubts about sex, and Playboy magazines,
Without memories or past, of a first kiss on the lips,
And the failed attempt, of a first love verse.

Just a common young man,
Who was amazed when it started to rain,
And got up shortly after falling,
With unanswered questions,
And answers that he could never understand.

I am, a man like everyone else,
With fears and drifts, about every cruel mistake,
With very small songs, by halves of a voice,
Light-years away from the engineer, the doctor, or the citizen,
That my father in his efforts, so much imagined.

And I am, like I think we all are,
A sick person without a flag, in love with love,
A willing loneliness, before the arms of forgiveness,
A desolate dying man, who bled out in a rose garden,
A kite that in the hands of a virgin,
Once again, rose up.

Just a common man,
Who still marvels when it starts to rain,
And who despite having fallen,
Has decided to get up, and in the end,
Die, standing.