Buenos Aires 2001

My hands and these streets are sheets of ice.
I search for you lost in San Telmo,
hanging from the cables that connect the rooftops.

The rain falls like an old Rolling Stones song,
like the angel they pushed out of a plane.
And it's always Thursday in Plaza de Mayo.

I look for you through the steam on a bus window
and, at dinner, the villains among my friends
ask me over and over about you.

Faces fall into the puddles on Corrientes Street,
under dry leaves, people keep their dreams.
And in the storm, senators who escape,
broken glass in front of the Pink House.

Cars pass slowly like a herd of elephants,
in the dark, a woman offers me mate,
and Charlie jumps for me from a skyscraper.

Today Boca wins and a young woman who reminds me of you
packs her bags. The IMF undresses you in the worst winter.

Today I left this city recorded on the answering machine for you.
In the background, it sounds better every day,
twentieth century, hodgepodge, problematic and feverish.

And you hum a song by Los Redondos.
Today I'll go to the river, I'll look for you at the bottom.
Mafalda plays nuclear war.
I'll go to San Telmo, today I have to find you.