Vidalita Porteña

It gives me sadness
This smell of nobody
So anciently
Poor Buenos Aires

Modest silences
Rise from the street
And they are similar
To hospitals

In front of a window
They become cowards
Quite human
And even some angels

In an ashtray
Fits a catastrophe
For example, a comb
Represents prison

It seems unbelievable
But what a disaster
It is to see the leaves
Leaving the trees

These things happen
Anyone knows it
Autumns are
Criminals

There was no war here
Just a tribute
To frequent victims
Of tango and air

Even the walls
Feel guilty
No one imagines
What Buenos Aires is