Lucero Del Alba

To want to see you,
Morning star.
I stumbled and fell upon returning from walking in nothing.
The twentieth century passes
and the Central city ties me
with its ethereal cement hand,
to the vice of waking up early.

I raised my eyes to the sky,
when crossing the square.
Wanting to see you, Morning Star,
but I couldn't see anything.

Nothing but miserable
concrete pigeon lofts.
Behind the beaten foliage
of some dried-up trees.

This vision distracted me,
and I stepped on dog poop.
I shouted 'damn it',
and the patrol car stopped.

Oh, oh my luck, what bad luck.
To want to see you, Morning Star.

Accused by the cop
who saw me looking at the sky
and shouting 'damn it'
at the dawn of the Morning Star.

Under suspicion of being addicted
to city drugs.
I was adding to the record
of urban legality.
Oh, oh my luck, what bad luck.
To want to see you, Morning Star.

Morning Star.
With your light, I dreamed in my confinement.
It bathed my flesh,
and this, with its shadow, the ground.

From the remote plains
of the great overcrowding
Where I left this
solitary song to the open sky.

My awakening was
as sad as my
bad luck.
Morning star that I wanted to see
but I couldn't see anything.

Nothing but miserable
concrete pigeon lofts.
Behind the beaten foliage
of some dried-up trees.

In the city that oppresses me,
to the vice of waking up early.
Where there is no one to warn.
But many who keep quiet, ignoring you.
Morning Star.
Ignoring you. Morning Star.