En Las Calles De Liniers

In the dirty corners of Liniers I lose my days
as I'm not meant to escape.
The great attachment to the illusory is reflected in the shop windows
of a fake shopping center.

The populous idolatry is drawn in long lines
to worship and not think.
The dead stone of the falsely miraculous detour
continues to hide the truth.

Unsatisfied, renegades who deny themselves,
lacking calm and pity.
They seek the triangle in girls to feed their morbid curiosity,
and masturbate in solitude.

They also enjoy showing themselves as innocent,
they are harpies, slaves of the television,
Living thinking about the external, addicted to life
they seek bills and passion.

I only transmit what I observe,
it's not an invention of my mind, no.
This happens when I contemplate the present
in the streets of Liniers.

But when the sun, my faithful witness, shines directly on the asphalt
and melts the tar
The nauseating ferments of the stagnant garbage
hinder my thinking.

On the corner a policeman is fighting with his woman;
she was never faithful to him
under the railway tracks the beggars roll around
very few want to look at them.

And the inverbe human horde descending from the trains,
desperate and wild
Contaminates my mind and I seek to love them in any way
so as not to return ever.

I only transmit what I observe,
it's not an invention of my mind, no.
This happens when I contemplate the present
in the streets of Liniers.

In the streets, in the streets, in the streets of Liniers.