Las Moscas
Joan Manuel Serrat
The Flies
You, the familiar ones
Inevitable, greedy
You, vulgar flies
You evoke all things to me
Oh, old voracious flies
Like bees in April
Old persistent flies
On my infantile bald head
Flies of all hours
From childhood and adolescence
From my golden youth
From this second innocence
Ending up believing in nothing
In nothing
Flies of the first weariness
In the family room
The clear summer nights
When I began to dream
And in the hated school
Swift, amusing flies
Chased, chased
For love of what flies
I know you have landed
On the enchanted toy
On the closed book
On the love letter
On the lifeless eyelids
Of the dead
Inevitable, greedy
That neither work like bees
Nor shine like butterflies
Tiny, mischievous
You, old friends
Evoke all things to me
