Down the early morning's sidewalks
the sun's dancing its milonga with the janitors,
with the eye bags you got too many of, my love,
a day after what's gone with the wind.
The secretaries in the offices
are having a snack for breakfast in the street corner
and when they come down the moon to the tough disc to crack,
with their sleep upside down and a future with no tomorrow, they cry
Blue plastic tears rolling down the stairs,
southern seas' tribes at the border's west side,
rolling paper lips, wise men who don't know anything,
castaways at the cathedral, cobwebs who are used
to passing the night at the glass.
The surgeons of disappointments
cut healthy joy,
the dawning's veins stock up on cold blood
and every monday a new day is born dead.
The lipstick, corner of your mouth,
touches up the carmine's insults,
pimps neatly put on their toupees
and Romeos run late and Juliets fall out of love.
Blue plastic tears rolling down the stairs,
southern seas' tribes at the border's west side,
rolling paper lips, wise men who don't know anything,
castaways at the cathedral, rebellious cobwebs...
Goodbye-flavored blue plastic tears
When will the bus cross this dead end?
rolling paper lips, wise men who don't know anything,
hospital flower's petals, rebellious cobwebs...
Blue plastic tears
When will the bus cross?
(Southern seas' tribes...)