Prefiero El Trapecio

With the Gilda sisters I sleep in a big bed.
We dance to the songs of Sisa and Peret.
In a building with windows without glass,
Carpanta and I live on cans of squid.
On the thirteenth, rue del Percebe,
I live in the absence of rogue desire.
In the indigence of the hook and the wooden leg.
And if life is a dream,
as some troubled navigator said,
I prefer the trapeze
to see them coming in motion.
I'm living my way.
If it's convenient, watering. So the fig tree grows.
So it grows and gives shade,
so it gives shade and fruits
and many springs,
and many springs.
In front of a fire that I feed
with furniture from some indecent eviction,
I warm myself next to Road Runner,
Bricktop and other colleagues.
In short, good people.
We are fictional people.
Urban castaways.
Lost, renegades, misfits,
forgotten. Fictional people,
cool people if the world were made of cardboard.
I prefer the trapeze
to see them coming in motion.
I'm living my way,
if it's convenient, watering. So the fig tree grows.
So it grows and gives shade,
so it gives shade and fruits
and many springs,
and many springs.
Gentlemen with worn top hats.
Argyle sock.
With a torn glove.
With a dirty scarf on the damp nights of March.
Like the cute kitten, we invariably fail
for the amusement of the audience
who looks at us askance.
And like the Coyote, we never arrive on time,
nor in the right place, nor at the right moment.