Tango Del Quinielista

This is the story of an ordinary man
On a withered Sunday afternoon
Glued to the TV, he suffers and waits
For the game results to be announced
A tango plays
Among the X's, the ones, and the treacherous twos
Of the local team
Which, with more class, has still lost
Demolishing so many stubborn illusions
Blowing up so many house of cards, so many dreams
Of the poor bettor
Who will have to
Return to the factory once again
On Monday at eight
Like every week, giving up
For now, on the apartment entrance and the wedding
Because of a ball and a goalkeeper
Because of a damn penalty and a defender
Because of a cursed forward
Disappointments, breaking through the winter walls
When Sunday evening fades and the man
Has no comfort left but to wait for the swing of fortune
To retrieve the new suit from the trunk
To go to the movies with his girlfriend
Where he explores
With useless passion her soft breasts
And while Marlon Brando dances a tango in Paris on the screen
The memory of the traitorous referee returns
How is it possible that a penalty shatters so many dreams?
And at eight
They will finally lay down in that old little room in the pension
The same bed with the yellow blanket
The same fear of staining the mattress
Where they abandon, wrinkled, the last efforts
Of the withered Sunday afternoon
That opens the dark door of silence
Like a soft and melancholic hand
When the green fingers of winter
Have tiredly closed
Dirty, worn, murky, dusty
Until filling the trash cans
Where the heart of time agonizes