John Milner

The scene was concrete
White t-shirt and some jeans
He hurried that cigarette,
proud and virile, with a gaze adhered to Jimmy Dean's canons:
greasy hair, studded boots,
waiting to see the weekend arrive.
I assure you I didn't care
about the future that awaited us.

He had a simple and happy girlfriend who was the spitting image of Marilyn
and some friends with whom to play at being the pharaohs of the city.
Always roaming the streets in search of action, moving to the rhythm of old R&R,
we reached that turning point that separates reality from fiction.

John Milner no longer lives here.
Slowly he took part of me;
and now that everything is older, colder, and grayer
and you feel time passing by you,
when nostalgia hurts my heart
a familiar voice makes its appearance:
the music flew to winter
the day Buddy Holly died.

I'm talking about the old times
those that will never return
the drugs ended up spoiling
the little things that made us love
friendship, our little freedom
and that train without a destination or direction
no longer stops, no longer stops at every station.

The boys of summer said goodbye
the day Buddy Holly died.