Tinta Roja
Roberto Goyeneche
Red Ink
Wall,
red ink in the gray
of yesterday...
Your emotion
of brick, happy
on my alley,
with a blot
painted the corner...
And that carmine
mailbox,
and that bar,
where the Italian cried
for his blonde distant love
that he wet with good wine.
Where will my suburb be?...
Who stole my childhood?...
In what corner, my moon,
do you pour like back then
your clear joy?
Sidewalks that I walked on,
thugs that are no longer.
Under your satin sky
a piece of my heart
stays up all night...
Wall,
red ink in the gray
of yesterday...
Gush
of my unhappy blood
that I spilled on the geranium
of that balcony
that hid it...
I don't know
if it was black from my sorrows
or it was red from your veins
my sangria...
Why did it come and go
after the carmine
and the gray
far bar,
where an Italian cried
his longings for good wine.
