Milonga del alma III

(Milonga)

He is sitting there. Everyone knows he is a communist, they respect him, it is known, he is poor and rich, generous when inviting, when envying, and even when giving his all. I confirm, because everyone suspects, that he has thousands and thousands of companion souls and more.

From the fragile material of oblivion,
petal by petal I raised you, illusory,
so deep to love, so resentful,
that I turn my face to all my memory.

But I don't want in this bad mood,
to see you like an Alice in the mirror,
an unattainable stain on a page,
when I was a child, when I wasn't old.

Memory is a lover that requires
a time that cannot be mine;
I cannot be the whistle of the gloom,
I am the hunter, I am the one who wounds.

Jacaranda tree of the flower,
that turns the whole square blue
and that saw you keeping my love,
like a stolen fruit, a little girl.

And I, who sometimes sleep in the bosom
of a drink with the warmth of a mother
-what am I saying, no, just a friend-,
I love the courage of the one who fell into the mire.

The love that blasphemes,
tied like a dog to a hard stake
and moves away from the side of the poem,
a childish vision of give and take.

The soul so lied to,
the frivolous time of sacred
passion dressed Friday;
the irresponsible flame of life
on the black wick of my song,
and that mister forgetfulness, who doesn't forget,
and that mister dread.

(The italicized texts correspond to recited parts and belong to Alfredo Zitarrosa)