El lobo
Real de Catorce
The Wolf
He walks down the street
handfuls of night on his wings
lights a cigarette
and thinks of Eugenia maybe:
her naked body, her surrendered lips, her skin
the afternoon they dreamed together
that they loved each other in a hotel.
He walks slowly,
the moon rests on the clouds
looks at the people
they are strangers' faces to him
he throws ash
his mind travels through Paris
the streets they wandered together
the radio rain he saw fall.
He is like a wolf
that shelters the night
bars are his safe cave, as it should be
he is a loner, lives in corners
hunting his future prey
as it should be.
He arrives at Hell
pays his entrance fee
sits at the bar, starts to drink
a man approaches, offers him a drink
the music sounds very sad
he says he accepts, wants a cocktail.
The hours hide
under a drunkard
and no one looks for them, they let them be
he dances with one and then another
someone invites him, entices him
to drink from a bottle.
Behind a shadow, death takes shelter
death that night is the grand prize.
He looks at the people, they are strangers' faces to him
their naked bodies, the lips,
the cold kisses on his skin.
He is like a wolf...
