Quién mató a Carmencita

In her best pressed dress, she went
shaking with anxiety, her tears were flowing
in the distance, the howls of dogs and honking horns
the park was dark and the city was asleep.

Barely fifteen years old and her life was fading
home was suffocating her and school was boring
in the hallways of radios, her heart was racing
blinding her eyes, the idols of the day.

The cold dream dealers in magazines
who profit from youth and fatten their pockets
twisted her hopes and fed her lies
bottled happiness, love, and fantasy.

Barely fifteen years old and her life was fading...

She ran away, Carmencita died
the rose bled on her temples
she left to find her last dream.

The girl didn’t know they would poison her
that all those fairy tales didn’t belong to her,
knowing that world of weed and pools
flying with Braniff International to joy.

Her world was that one, the one from Pila neighborhood
with crushed streets, full of shouting
her narrow, low house, helping in the kitchen
while others got rich, she was dying.

The newspapers reported: cause unknown...