Little beggar, sweet beggar crossing a long street, bitter street
telling people how is possible to weep and to smile in a whole single time,
amusing himself, not with peatons, faces nor with other circus performance,
but whit the long distance smiling stars;
so, he can die some day under a truck's wheel, but his death will be great, because he has not sold it
by money like an unfortunate condemned thief, nor he has changed it by a bit of glory like a mere heroette.
His death will explode plainly like a blossom.
He carries his life in the pocket, with a pin, a piece of paper, a cent, and other things
everyone more important than life itself.
You don't know what is a ten, a hundred cities' nostalgia
that he feels every night
like the paw of a love that struggles his heart and makes it produce sweet tears,
and he walks this way, loving each woman that passes, as if she were the only woman he ever has loved,
remembering every town that walks as if it were the only city he ever has known,
but wishing, wishing the wishes that we cannot wish,
smiling to Life that blows him
and considering it less important that the amiable content of his pocket;
a pin, a piece of paper, a cent and other things...
telling people how is possible to weep and to smile in a whole single time,
little beggar, sweet beggar crossing a long street, bitter street.
Previous
|
Next