El volantín

On Sunday afternoon
my kite takes to the sky,
it flies up to the clouds
like it's searching for the end.

Sometimes a snag
gets in its way,
it greets it with charm
'cause it's made of fine paper.

But if it's an enemy
with those damn strings,
it takes off and dives,
always getting cut down.

And when night falls
under the glow of a streetlight,
I don't dream like it's
just a single ray of sun.

Kite, rise up to the heavens
to that celestial mansion
and ask Saint Peter
if he wants to take a commission.