Pájaros En La Cabeza

I looked out the window and dreamed of being an astronaut stepping on the moon.
and the sky was crossed by galleons, dolphins, kites, feluccas.
And on the blackboard the teacher dictated the theorems.
The song of a sparrow sounded in his head, birds in his head.

He always left late, punished for never being where he should be.
and at home boredom and food served on the table awaited him.
In the background the sound of a television and a mother sighing.
"Where are you my son? Always in the clouds," and no one listens to the news.

Birds in the head and fly
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.
Birds in the head and dream
that I will still count lightning with you,
although time and sand hide the way to you.

Time passed and we all grew up
-well, not all, some continued
looking out the window and flying over
the blue office carpet.
At work he still got lost
in the jungle of your dreams
and a scream named him, scratched him
and broke the sweet spell.

Mother was still serving the soup,
"When will you settle down?
One day we will open it and flocks of parrots
They will escape from it."

He smiled without leaving
to look out the window,
dreaming of better worlds,
rains that fell on couples who loved each other,
carnations in the rifles,
ships that cast off their moorings,
headlight lights, kisses from women like never before,
They never looked at him.

Birds in the head and fly
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.
Birds in the head and dream
that I will still count lightning with you,
although time and sand hide the way to you.

One January morning our man
He climbed to the top of the Spain Tower
to see if by biting the gray blue of the sky
the birds were silent.
Looking absorbed at the city,
I didn't even hear the murmur of his chest,
neither to mother, nor to the television, nor to the office,
just a distant flap of wings.

When we wanted to realize
Our boy was missing.
Nobody at the top of the tower saw him leave
the gray shadow of the building.
Nobody saw him fall to the ground,
no one heard their laughter,
just the sound of a hundred birds -or some more-
escaping from their cages.

Nothing was known about this dreamer,
of the song of its birds,
until letters arrived, pieces of his wings
in the form of postcards.

Birds in the head and fly
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.
Birds in the head and dream
that I will still count lightning with you,
although time and sand hide the way to you.

Birds in the head and fly
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.