Chiquilín de Bachín

At night, dirty faces
of a little angel in jeans,
sells roses on the tables
of Bachín's bar.

If the moon shines
over the grill,
he eats moon and soot bread.

Every day in his sadness
that doesn't want to dawn,
he's woken up on January sixth
with the star upside down,
and three cat kings
steal his shoes,
one left and the other as well!

Little one,
give me a bouquet of voice,
so I can go out to sell
my shames in bloom,
shoot me with three roses
that hurt on account
of the hunger I didn't understand,
Little one.

When the sun puts on the kids
learning aprons,
he learns how much zero
he had left to know.
And he looks at his mother,
round and round,
but he doesn't want to see her.

Every day, in the garbage,
with a bread and a noodle,
he makes a kite
to leave, and he's still here!
He's a strange man,
a thousand-year-old child,
whose string gets tangled inside.

Little one,
give me a bouquet of voice,
so I can go out to sell
my shames in bloom.
Shoot me with three roses
that hurt on account
of the hunger I didn't understand,
Little one.