Miguel

Miguel sleeps on Juan XXIII street
In the afternoon, you’ll see him playing downtown
His guitar, always loyal, sleeps by his side
What he earns, just enough to eat and drink

He sings a heart that’s tired of living
Always out of control
Searching for a dream that’ll make him laugh again
He’s got just one song

If it’s cold, wrap yourself in cardboard
And your skin, all wrinkled
He knows it’s the price of being born
So far from money, so far from power,
Yesterday Miguel left:
No king showed up for his funeral,
Nobody cried for him
His guitar fell silent, but his voice,
I can still hear it on Main Street.