ESQUINAS PORTEÑAS.

Corner of a Buenos Aires neighborhood, the moon and sun paint your walls. Winter rains weep over you in the watercolors of my memories. Thirty moons have known my wound, and a hundred little streets saw us pass. Your life and mine crossed paths; you took the road that never leads back.

Streets where a quiet life lost its hopes, its passion and its faith. Streets: if I know she is dead, why do I still look for her, knocking at every door? Little streets shaded with poetry, you saw us walking once, both of us happy. Companion of the sun and stars, she departed that afternoon on the road to God.

The winds whisper my sorrow. The shadows tell me she has gone. And in the calm nights I find her name written like an obsession. Little corner of a Buenos Aires neighborhood, with walls painted by moon and sun, when you weep with your winter rains you stain the landscape of my memories.