El pescante

Dark yoke trotting in the night.
Whiplash of mocking boast.
Compadreando of gray on the car
through the stones of Constitución.

In the left hand tied the rein,
he tamed the red-haired red-haired man.
And, like him, a hundred garments were tamed
under the bridle of his pretension.

Come on!...
loaded with shadow and memory.
Let's go!...
through the past.
Come on!...
to the sound of your slow stride
Let's go!...
on the road to forgotten time.
Let's go through old routines,
maybe from a corner
René will call us.
Let's go that in his adventures
I lived a madness
of love and Suisse.

Tungo skinny, tranqueando in the afternoon
breathless to the tired chirlazo.
Failed in his last boast
under the sun of Callao Street.

The brim of his hat unpainted
no longer even whistles the old song,
for there is neither love nor travelers left
for the car of his heart.