Chiquilín de Bachín

At night, dirty face
like an angel covered in soot
sells roses on the tables
at Bachín's bar
if the moon shines
on the grill
he eats moon and soot-covered bread

Every day in his sadness
that doesn’t want to see the dawn
he’s woken up on January sixth
by the star turned upside down
and three wise men
steal his shoes
one left and the other too

Little kid, give me a bouquet of voice
so I can go sell
my blooming shame
hit me with three roses
that hurt, on account
of the hunger I didn’t understand
Little kid...

When the sun dresses the kids
in aprons to learn
he learns how much zero
he still had left to know
and he looks at his mother
spinning round and round
but he doesn’t want to see her

Every dawn, in the trash
with a loaf of bread and some noodles
he makes a kite
to fly away but stays here
he’s a strange man
a child of a thousand years
who inside
gets tangled in the string