En El Muelle

The soul that always returns
To the cherished corners,
To the places we've roamed
And the air that smells like the sea.

Mornings on bicycles,
Riding around the park,
Secrets during siesta,
On a getaway to the river.

Not forgetting the fights
In the card games,
The barbecues at the house
Or the pickup games in the neighborhood.

Pushed by the wind
Crashing on the breakwater,
These stories spin
Like a boat in a puddle.

Vast blue sky,
All painted in watercolor,
This beloved village
That was a refuge and a school.
In my wild memory
The sand keeps flying,
This rising tide
That carries me since I was little.

Afternoon at the Paris cinema,
With three back-to-back films
For the cloudy days,
In case the beach got boring.

All the kids at home,
From the neighborhood, country skin,
And savoring the delights
From my mom or grandma.

Groves of eucalyptus,
Flooding the paths,
And the scent of the pines
From the divine little park.

Waiting for the blue bus,
Diagonal, center, hospital,
Or from the port to the cemetery,
The final stroll.

Vast blue sky,
All painted in watercolor,
This beloved village
That was a refuge and a school.
In my wild memory
The sand keeps flying,
This rising tide
That carries me since I was little.

Vast blue sky,
All painted in watercolor.
In my wild memory
The sand keeps flying from Necochea.