En Las Calles de Liniers

In the dirty corners of Liniers I lose my days
Because it's not my turn to escape
The great attachment to the illusory is reflected in the shop windows
Of a fake shopping center

The populous idolatry is drawn in long lines
To worship and not to think
The dead stone of the falsely miraculous detour
Continues to hide the truth

Unsatisfied, renegades who deny themselves
Lacking in calm and pity
Seek the triangle on the tracks to feed their morbid curiosity
And masturbate in solitude

They also enjoy showing themselves innocent
They are harpies, slaves of the television
Living thinking about the external, addicted to life
Seeking money and passion

I only transmit what I observe
It's not an invention of my mind, no
This happens when I contemplate the present
In the streets of Liniers

But when the Sun, my faithful witness, shines directly on the asphalt
And melts the tar
The nauseating ferments of the stagnant garbage
Hinder my thoughts

On the corner a policeman is fighting with his woman
Because she was never faithful to him
Under the railway tracks the beggars roll around
Very few want to look at them

And the immature human horde descending from the trains
Desperate and wild
Contaminates my mind and I seek to love them in any way
To never return

I only transmit what I observe
It's not an invention of my mind, no
This happens when I contemplate the present
In the streets of Liniers

In the streets, in the streets, in the streets of Liniers