Lustrabotas de Avenida

Shiner of wandering miseries
I know everyone wears gloves
To shake your hand
Dirty from the forearm
To all your fingers
Even though they are ten
They are powerless
Even though they are ten
Your hands are two

Fighter of everyday irony
Between your dirty hands
You grip your bristle weapon
Like every morning
On the street or in the bar
They call you without knowing who you are
Student without a teacher
Who gave birth to you in the dark

If we think your life is ignorant
Among bottles of dye
Among the poor and avenues
You have your epitaph ready
And a ten in
In life
Shining in the sun
How much I loved you, little one
How much I cried for your death
Among newspapers and rags