La séptima luna

The seventh moon
was the one from Luna Park
the twilight advanced
from the fair to the bar
meanwhile the Holy Angel blasphemed
the pollution he breathed
muscular but fragile.
Poor Angel, poor wings.

The sixth moon
was the soul of an unfortunate
who cursed being born,
but smiled.
Four nights without having dinner
with his hands, with his hands,
stained with coal.
He touched a lady's chest
and stained and laughed
thinking he was the boss.

The fifth moon
gave so much fear
it was the head of a lady
who, feeling death near
played billiards.
She was big and elegant,
she was not young, she was not old
maybe sick
she was surely sick
because she bled a little from her ear.

The fourth moon
was a string of prisoners
walking, following the tracks
of an old train.
Their feet were bloody
and their hands, and their hands, and their hands
without their gloves,
but don't be alarmed
the sky is clear
and there are not enough prisoners.

The third moon
everyone went out to look for it
it was, it was that big
that more than one thought of the Eternal Father.
Laughter dried up,
lights melted
and hell began,
people ran home
because for one night
winter returned.

The second moon
sowed panic among the gypsies
some even
amputated a finger.
Others went to the bank
to do some business
but what confusion
most of them
with their children and their dogs
ran to the station.

The last moon
was only seen by a newborn
with black, deep, round eyes
and didn't cry
with big wings he took the moon
in his hands, in his hands.
He flew out the window
he was the man of tomorrow.
He flew out the window...