Con La Camisa Rota

I come to steal your nap with the attic handle,
with coughs of a carter I come selling lime,
and I bring the drawers full
of soot from my lungs, of knitting needles,
sparks from crossing miserable little cables
that didn't want to see,

I come from braiding esparto for the gate of a prison,
disheveling sadness, which is freshly painted,
and I keep its quiet lament
dripping between my fingers in lead jars,
and in sacks of misery, fairground light bulbs,
perfume of alperchín,

And I leave with the broken shirt
because I made a flag
with garlands of pebbles,
feathers of black doves,
that the verse I gave to the air
dies in any way,
and in the sky of your mouth
the fog will eat it.

I come to brand the caterpillars to then decorate
the bees that don't sell the honey from their hive,
and I bring clouds of tantrum that flood the flowerpots
with a desire to run aground,
traitorous little tears, dyeing the bathtubs...
...razor blades

And I leave with the broken shirt
because I made a flag
with garlands of pebbles,
feathers of black doves,
that the verse I gave to the air
dies in any way,
and in the sky of your mouth
the fog will eat it.