La Rueca
Marea
The Spinning Wheel
Compadre, the mule got tired of the waterwheel
and the little mirror of feeling so dull,
the pen of eating up the stories,
the fool of the tobacco clouds,
and the jester's laughter twists with each amulet,
tired of waiting for his awake dream,
Where is my dream?, sleeping off the booze,
pricked by the spinning wheel in a bar bathroom,
not a puppeteer, nor a farm dog,
neither the cicada nor the ant let him in,
sent him to the dark and they can go
screw the ghosts of loneliness,
forty bucks of happiness are enough for me.
The mouth got tired of wooden tongue,
the old fish of untangling hooks,
each patch to cover blind kisses,
the shearing of falling asleep in your hair,
and the puddles get bored of stabbing the sky,
mornings of talking with a full mouth,
Where is my dream?, sleeping off the booze,
pricked by the spinning wheel in a bar bathroom,
not a puppeteer, nor a farm dog,
neither the cicada nor the ant let him in,
sent him to the dark and they can go
screw the ghosts of loneliness,
forty bucks of happiness are enough for me.
And if I get tired of selling the pellets,
I tell you about the freckles, distribute lard and mattresses
to the messiahs who come to see
how I get tired of charging at hearts,
and each little square changes my skin for cardboard,
which in turn changes my face.
Where is my dream?, sleeping off the booze,
pricked by the spinning wheel in a bar bathroom,
not a puppeteer, nor a farm dog,
neither the cicada nor the ant let him in,
sent him to the dark and they can go
screw the ghosts of loneliness,
forty bucks of happiness are enough for me.
