El Aragonés Errante
Enrique Bunbury
The Wandering Aragonese
An emotional demon-like earthquake,
A jaguar observing them from the thickness of the jungle.
A silk ribbon around a time bomb about to explode.
A maneuver of never docking, a perfume of oriental scents,
A breakfast with tamales, a foreseen accident in the plans,
Of the tightrope artist, of the wandering Aragonese, about to stumble.
A tear like a pearl, returning to the sea, one way or another.
Pleading for some kind of relationship worthy of being called human,
Carrying sorrow and brokenness in the pocket of the heart.
One of those bad companies, a factory of melancholy,
That don't come to see if they can, but because they can they come,
An indigenous alien, who only drinks poetic justice.
A contained and crazy contention,
A kiss on the mouth of the bottle of sugarcane flower -grand reserve-,
On a table full of empty glasses and squeezed lemons.
An infinite thirst for illusions, where actions that shine are born and die,
In the time that contemplates a tailor-made world,
Not only for the one who sows, but for the one who is seed.
