Welcome (a rough translation into English of 'Bienvenida' by Mario Benedetti)

It occurs to me that you'll arrive differently
not exactly cuter
nor stronger, more docile
or more cautious,
it's just that you'll arrive differently.

As if this time without seeing me
would've surprised you as well,
maybe because you know
how much I think of you and number you,
after all nostalgia exists.

Even though we don't cry
at the ghostly platforms
or over the pillows full of candor,
nor under the matt sky,
I'm nostalgic,
you're nostalgic,
and how it fucks me up that he's nostalgic.

Your face is avant-garde,
maybe it arrives first
because I paint it on the walls
with invisible and secure traces.
Don't forget that your face
looks at me as a peasant,
smiles, throws a fit, and sings like a peasant
and that gives you an inextinguishable light.

Now I have no doubts,
you'll arrive differently and with signs,
with news, with depth, with frankness

I know I'll love you without questions
I know you'll love me without answers.

The Wolf and The Peonie

There was a flower,
and, there was a day.
"Trust!", -that's what they said-
"Both immaculate."

There was a growler,
the semper-scared wolf.
Who this one night said:
"Yes! I'll eat them both!"

After assessing
the weather, he said:
"maybe in the morning,
gotta rest tonight."

Morning was clearer,
down the hill he came.
Only to find out,
that it was all fate.

There was a flower,
and, also, a day.
Both immaculate
Yeah, just as they said.

The flower greater
than any he's seen,
and the day brighter
than any he's lived.

Eating peonies,
he just couldn't do.
An angel cruised by
and said "how are you?"

In less than a sec
the wolf was disarmed.
He just couldn't see
anything but love.

Then, wisely he though:
"You know what? I don't care about
the rhymes or stanzas no more;
all I want to do from now on,
is to be with her and experience her love."

I Crack My Knuckles (BI... UTIFIL!)

At the end,
I found myself
Cracking my knuckles
Whenever I needed to do so.

We can't decide when something is new.

We (seeing the selves that we have always been)
ask why.

I see us on the flip side.
On the side that no one ,ever,
once,
questioned anything.

I guess you had
to have
a companion.

Don't worry,
It still stings like a bitch
when you ask me
"Can we [b]reach a deal?"

What I don't understand
is how I could tell you that you are mine,
how you could tell me that I am yours,
how we could tell us that we are,
how we can tell us that we'll be.

From the draft box.

The feeling consumes me again (will I ever learn?) and I remember the song that says "remember that you can't forget."

Many things have changed, I am not 25 anymore (or any number that precedes 33 for that matter). Lately, the collection of musical equipment has become that, a collection. A collection that needs to be dusted every once in a while, whose care has became more of a task than a joy.