En los Árboles
El Ultimo De La Fila
In the Trees
Sometimes I write letters to not feel tied,
to not cling to whims that I would like abolished
from my life. From my life.
And I paint the envelopes in colors. In the return address, I am an enigma.
I always hope for a response to feel loved
like little children. Like little children.
Messages that would arrive, papers wrapping a stone.
Messages of affection that would break the glass of my room.
Who could ingest a precious drug...,
Make all those dreams come true.
Letters that would tell me nice things
like you will come to meow a password in the early morning
under my window. Under my window.
That we would run through the countryside, in the light of the dawn glows.
White sparks on the violent red. And that we would build cabins
in the trees. In the trees.
Messages that would arrive, papers wrapping a stone.
Messages of affection that would break the glass of my room.
Who could ingest a precious drug...
Make all those dreams come true.
