Artista E Vagabondo

The only friend you have
is a black dog with no name
who dreams of being white when he sleeps.
Together you roam the streets
of life and you’re not tired
because at night it’s just you in the world:
poet, artist, and drifter.
But you have a regret:
no one’s as beautiful as she was,
like the evening she said, "I’m leaving."
And you followed her in secret
to make love in the woods,
and now that your bed has been sold,
what will become of you?

Poet, artist, and drifter,
she’s gone away,
a bed preferred over a meadow,
a roof over the sky above her.
Poet, artist, and drifter,
you have no caresses,
but in your fantasy,
if a poem is born,
you create the love yourself.

But someone’s calling you
with a voice a bit distant,
it’s really her saying, "Strange."
And then she says, "You’ve changed."
And then she says, "You’ve aged.
Need some cash? I’ve got some."
You replied, "Thanks, but no."
Because it comes to mind
that you cried among the crowd
when she said, "I’m sorry, I’m leaving."
And you followed her in secret
to make love in the woods,
and now that your bed has been sold,
she wants to buy you back.

Poet, artist, and drifter,
you’ve walked away,
prefer a meadow to a bed,
a roof to the sky above you.
Poet, artist, and drifter,
you have no caresses,
but in your fantasy,
if a poem is born,
you create the love yourself.