Canción Para Joan Salvat-Papasseit

I ain't modest. I'm in love with these little eyes of mine because they look into the distance and with my forehead so high from thinking so much. I don't want to thank anyone, because I haven't had a teacher. I don't promise anything. I just walk (dipping the pen in the heart, where the tool should be dipped...) I don't know what I aim for, because having a purpose is not a job. I no longer want to enlist under any flag. I will now be the commentator of divine ANARCHY, of the impossible ANARCHY in the lives of men who don't desire a better era. And whatever they think of me, I don't care at all, I don't care at all, I don't care at all... He entered the world through the back door. His trunk empty, and a patch on his ass... It was a paper trunk that filled time, women and the port, love and death. It was a trunk that slowly recomposed itself and every memory turned into verse... For him, the whore dressed in the clothes from when she was a virgin, and seagulls flew with Sunday feathers... Yes... For him, the ships blew once, twice, and thrice, and a couple kissed on any corner... Yes... For him, the cats meowed at the moon, on the rooftops... Yes... For him, promises and carnations bloomed red... Yes... For a thin man with a greenish face, wet lips, and very long fingers to better savor women. And he wasn't modest. And he was in love with his small eyes, looking into the distance and his forehead so wide from all the thinking. And he didn't thank anyone who taught him nothing. And whatever you think of this... I don't care at all, I don't care at all, I don't care at all...