There is always a city, traces of poets
Whose destinies crossed within its walls
Water flows almost everywhere, my memory murmurs
Names of cities, names of people, holes in my head
And it is always the same story that starts again,
Collapsed horizons and massage parlours
Assumed solitude, respect for one's neighbours,
Yet there are people who exist and who dance.
They are people of another species, another race,
Alive we dance a cruel dance
We have few friends but we have the sky,
And the infinite solicitude of spaces;
Time, aged time preparing its revenge,
The uncertain rustling of passing life
Whistling of the wind, drops of water dripping
And the yellowed bedroom where our death advances.
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