PUENTE
ALSINA.

Where is my neighborhood, my beloved cradle? Where is the hideout, yesterday's refuge? With one sweep of its hand, the paving erased the old neighborhood that saw me born... In the suspicious stillness of the outskirts, on the night of a sad drama of passion, I, left an orphan then, a child of everyone, tumbled through the mud of that neighborhood.

Puente Alsina, once the lap that cradled me, the avenue reached you with a swipe of its claws... Old bridge, lonely and my confidant, you are the mark that progress has left upon the brow of the rebellious outskirts that succumbed as it passed.

I have never known a mother's caresses... I had but one father, and that was harshness, and in my veins, in my outlaw blood, a downtrodden people cries out its raw resentment. Because they are taking it from me, my neighborhood, my everything, I, the child of the mud, come to mourn it... My neighborhood is my mother, who no longer answers... Let them say where they have buried it!