speak of a place where
meet alone without having made an appointment,
not know their addresses and telephone numbers
but know that there are,
again, every Friday.
look and embrace,
relieved and smiling,
bitter clash their glasses and invent conversations
to say nothing of what bothers
in the center of the chest,
than it hurts. I mean a
sucucho
perceptible only to ghosts who have tried seriously wounded
desolation in all languages, are assumed guilty
without very clear what they are charged,
superstitions that have more faith.
go there again every time,
reinvent themselves
thousand times to see if one of those
they get something better than they are, but deep
know that "hope" is a word that
not allowed to pronounce.
(and thank goodness!)
talk about that corner in San Telmo, tango
from Plaza Dorrego and rock argento
the corner.
speak like a spectator, as if he could forget
I am, too, the protagonist,
that this place is home to my house and those people
more family than my family.
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