Las Vidas de Un Pantalón
Victor Manuel
The Lives of a Pair of Pants
The first life of those pants
Was so boring in the northern lands
With harsh winters, cold summers
And such sad sex that it was a sacrifice.
Suffered silently from fierce hemorrhoids
That he didn't show to anyone because he was very manly.
The house was strict like a mausoleum
Meals and dinners felt like funerals.
Mass on Sundays, echoes of the world
Life padded on the outside and inside
To not be soft, he hardened
And his heart seemed like a vine.
He felt his pulses quicken
Stuck in the bag where they took him
With more pants, shirts, scarves
To dress people in need.
The second life of those pants
Started one Sunday around eleven
To have fun and start the night
The rat and the cuckoo stole a car.
In it, two other girls got in
Who, like they breathe, took pills.
They had two drinks, dead from laughter
And around five, a routine check.
The cuckoo accelerates and by five-thirty
Fourteen police cars were chasing them.
While one of them seems to pray
The other just says: what a fucking mess!
Life burns, life invents itself
Blindly and to the left at over a hundred eighty
Living fast, you soon arrive
At Plaza de España, corner of Princess.
He never knew how he became African
They quickly adapted their cut and cloth
After ten years, they looked new
He thought of himself when he saw a mirror.
He feels cared for, folded, pampered
He doesn't feel strange in that village.
Sandals and mud are his family
He has never felt so needed.
He is convinced he will die here
And even if he doesn't say it, he feels happy
No matter how much he thinks about where he can go
There is no place with more poor people than here.
When they buried him with his last owner
He coldly thought that nothing is eternal
But someone at night unearthed the dead
And took the pants with them.
