Los Paraguas de Buenos Aires

It's raining in Buenos Aires, it rains,
and thinking about those who are going back home,
and about the shows in the poor theaters
and about the fruit vendors kissing the rain.

Thinking about those who don't even have umbrellas,
I feel like mine is pulling upwards.
'It wasn't the wind, if there's no wind,' I say,
when suddenly my umbrella flies away.

And it crosses rains from long ago:
the one that finally wet your sad face,
the one that brightened our first hug,
the one that rained before we even knew each other.

And we go back through so many rains, so many,
that the water is just born, let's go!,
it's raining upwards, it rains,
and with both of us our umbrella goes up.

So high, my dear,
on the way to a wild sky
where the rain has its shores
and the beginning of clear days.

So high, the water dissolves us together
and turns us into one, one,
and only one forever, always,
in one alone, alone, I think.

I think about those going back home
and the joy of the fruit vendor
and, in the end, it keeps raining in Buenos Aires,
I didn't bring an umbrella, it rains, it rains.