El trompo azul

I had a blue spinning top that was my brother
Distant baltarín of old stones
Through the left side of the neighborhood against the flow
And in streets of gates and bars

The tip of its steel was a star
None in the quarrel was better
And instead, sleepy, in her hands
He began to dream, trembling with love

My playful spinning top!
The poetry
Of the cricket from the ditch
What would it give him
If not his heart
And the whistle of the string
Endlessly
From the alley?

But the earth spinning hallucinated
Like a giant spinning top from nothing
Betrayed us, taking to the edge
The corner and the jasmine
The Moon and its gaze

The loneliness
Stained with greenery
Returns without age
To the city
Of mud and cobblestone