Avellaneda Blues

Dead track, street with always broken asphalt.
Freight train, smoke and soot are everywhere.
Today it rained and it's still cloudy.

South and oil, barrels in the mud, abandoned shed.
Dirty puddle, water rotting a forgotten shoe.
A truck interrupts the sad wasteland.

Dying light, the factory looks like a concrete elf
and the crane, its tear of load leans over the dock.
A friend sleeps near a Spanish ship.

Dawn breaks, the deserted avenue will soon stir.
And the workers, smoking impatiently, go to their work.
South, a piece of this century, industrial neighborhood.