El Perro Azul de La Nostalgia

In the middle of May it stayed
the old house still on the hammocks,
it left suddenly, didn't come back,
didn't say anything.

With the absence, the gray moon,
with the slow cold of another dawn
the white dance of your feet went away
distant rain.

And a dry time remains, loneliness,
your afternoons and cilampa perfume,
a blind tree that watches in your place
and the blue dog of nostalgia.

Thickets...Dust trails...
Streets that go away...
People passing by.

Thickets...low clouds...
And a girl hiding
between its wings.

Everything flies and leaves the station
with its noise yesterday the cicadas left
and in the window the wind broke
like a tear.

Only the dream of another sun remains for me,
the leaves drawing the face of your time,
sorococas in the air of your voice,
your winter skin.

The Rio Grande remains for me, and the lot,
and a hallway droning on the guitar,
the whole life to reinvent
angel of light, your pale hands.

Thickets...Dust trails...
Streets that go away...
People passing by.

Thickets...low clouds...
And the moon hiding
in my guitar