Ventanita de arrabal

In the Caferata neighborhood
in an old tenement,
with brick floors,
a door with a gate,
where the little organs
moan and groan,
a girl is waiting
for that guy to pass by.

That guy who came alone
into the tenement,
eyes glazed over with
a brown haze;
full-on boots,
shiny collar,
asked for a guitar
and sang just for her.

That guy who, one Sunday,
danced a tango;
that guy who said:
"I’m dying for you";
that guy whose soul
was dragged through the mud,
that guy who at the gate
never came back.

Little window of the shack
where there are only dried flowers,
you too abandoned
since that day... you stayed.

The dew on your leaves,
the drizzles of absence,
with the pain of a sigh
your little trunk was shattered.