La Canción de Los (buenos) Borrachos

Four drops
of tar in the voice,
seven notes
soaked in alcohol
tolling bells
at the bottom of the sea,
laughter
that made me cry...
With a parrot
blaspheming in Latin,
the 'sultans of swing'
join in
and a big band
with a trombone and bowler hat
from New Orleans
at my funeral.
And that tango
from the southern compadrito
and a fandango
from an Andalusian gypsy
and a piano
with two extra glasses,
and hands
that know how to play it.
Prayers
for people without faith,
temptations
to drink again
the poison
your lips give me,
the obscene
kiss of truth.
The ballad
of the unfaithful married woman,
too many
things to learn,
the doorman
of Puerta del Sol,
the postman
of your love letters,
the first one
to take you out dancing
a waltz.
The waltz
of the saddest sadness in the world,
the beauty I wasted,
the laziness of vagabonds,
the unfinished puzzle.
The secret word, the hand
that plants violets in the concrete,
the cursed summer song,
the speed dating of my heart.
And the miracle of the alphabet,
the turtle that starts to fly,
the tenderness of dinosaurs,
the anniversary of loneliness.
The liturgy of farewells,
the stray bullet coming for me,
the bitter nostalgia of escape,
the soundtrack of what I lived.
The song of the good
drunks
who, at dawn,
return home,
the song that knocks over the trash cans
full of garbage from the Capital.
The song whispered in the ear,
the song you don't want to hear,
we sing it, the bad husbands,
when, in oblivion,
we think of you.
The song of the good
drunks,
who, at dawn,
return home,
the song that knocks over the trash cans
full of garbage from the Capital.
The song whispered in the ear,
the song I couldn't write,
we sing it, the bad husbands,
when, in oblivion,
we think of you.