La Aurora de Nueva York

The dawn of New York has
Four columns of mud
And a hurricane of black doves
Splashing in the putrid waters
The dawn of New York has
Four columns of mud

The dawn arrives and no one receives it in their mouth
Because there is no morning or possible hope there
Sometimes the coins in furious swarms
Drill and devour abandoned children

The dawn of New York moans
Through the immense stairways
Searching among the edges
Gardenias of drawn anguish

The first ones to come out understand with their bones
That there will be no paradise or love in bloom
They know they are going to the mud of numbers and laws
To games without art, to sweats without fruit

The dawn of New York moans...

The light is buried by chains and noises
In an impudent challenge of rootless science
In the neighborhoods there are people who hesitate sleepless
As if they had just emerged from a blood shipwreck

The dawn of New York has
Four columns of mud
The dawn of New York moans
Through the immense stairways