Ezeiza

They say there is a country to the south of the world, tied to the tail of the American kite. A magical and strange country where the joy of pagan carnivals mixes with the sadness of gringa mothers waving handkerchiefs in front of ships that set sail.

A country that is passion and wonder where one cannot be completely happy, but cannot be abandoned. Because those who leave die of nostalgia, drowned in tears or hanged on telephone wires for Christmas and birthdays.

They accompany you to Ezeiza, dragging the bags, where are you going?
With recycled style, changed citizenship, where are you going?

Foreign Christmases searching in the wallet for the photo you love the most
Watching Argentina's goals at 3 in the morning on CNN Sports
You leave the old folks and the boys looking for a bit of comfort at the end of the month
And the pesos you save you'll spend on a trip to come see them
The suitcase with memories, doesn't fit the schoolyard or the ten o'clock soccer game
Doesn't fit your grandfather's soul, the orchard and the chicken coop, the oven and the store

Dulce de leche syndrome, yerba mate smuggler and English postcards
There they call you a 'sudaca', here we just call you 'black' to mess around