Tango del quinielista [English translation]

This is the story of an ordinary man

who in a withered sunday evening

stuck to the radio, suffers and waits

for the result of the match.

A tango sounds that appears among the Xs,

the 1s and 2s who betray the local team

who with more class however lost

crushing so much foolish illusion

blowing up so many cards towers, so many dreams

of the poor pools punter who will have

to return to the factory again

on monday at eigth like every week renouncing

for a moment, to the flat and the wedding

because of a ball and a goalkeeper,

of a goddamn penalty kick and a defender

because of a goddamned striker.

Dissapointments, that assault the winter walls

when the sunday evening leaves

and the man doesn't have more consolation

than waiting for the fortune ups and downs

rescuing the new suit of the crate

to go with his girlfriend to the movies where he'll explore

with useless passion her soft breasts

and while Marlon Brando on the screen

dances a tango in Paris returns the memory

of the betraying referee. How it is possible

that a penalty kick gets rid of so many dreams?

And at eight, they will sleep finally

in that old hostel room

the same bed of yellow sheets

the same fear of staining the matress

where they leave wrinkled the last efforts

of the withered sunday evening

that opens the dark door of silence

like a soft and silent hand

when the green fingers of the winter

have been closing tired

dirty, shabby, muddy, dusty

until filling with cold the paper bins

where the heart of time dies.