Closed for demolition
.
Joaquin Sabina
.
This balm does not cure scars,
this rumbita not know love,
this rosary beads
silent unhappy over what he says
but tells the truth. This
Store sheets that will not burn,
this phone without voice mail, call
the morning, today I was late, thus
cowardly not to say no. This
you this without you so bitter,
the hourglass of sand,
kisses this strike, this lethargy, these pants
for the old Peter Pan
This comfortable without panties Zara,
a tour of Soho from a red bus,
these eyes that do not measure or compare
not forget your face
not remember your cross.
not abuse my inspiration
not accuse my heart
so battered and worn
is closed for demolition.
For wrinkles of my voice is filtered
desolation of knowing that these are
the last verses that I write,
to say "Condi" to the two
us plenty of reasons.
This paya so far from his gypsy criminal
Puerto this without vis a vis,
this civil war, this hand in hand,
these Moors and Christians,
the Berlin Wall.
This virus does not die or kill us,
this amnesia on the roof of your palate,
dust limousine Manhattan,
winter in Mar del Plata,
Captain verses.
This growing up without delicacy,
this wetback Muscat,
factory this valley of sadness, this foam
certainly
this hive without honey.
This smear of blood and ink,
the bathroom without mascara or nembutal,
these bones back to the office within a
coat with patches of solitude.
not abuse my inspiration, not accuse
my heart so battered and worn
it is closed for demolition.
For wrinkles of my voice is filtered
desolation of knowing that these are
the last verses that I write,
to say "Condi" to the two
us plenty of reasons.
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