ROSA
DE TANGO.

Your heart was a tango, and your hips a bandoneon. A tango wept in your soul, asleep in the shadows beneath your eyes. The pain of Boedo and Chiclana over your sky-blue eyes. Pain crying out in the crimson headband in your hair and in your song.

Rose of tango, your heels tapping on the pavement. Rose of tango, like the flirtatious compliment that entangles you. All your paths were tangos, a song twisted into a beat. And that night, as in Esthercita's story, twenty springs and a date took you forever away from my outskirts.

With tangos as funeral rites, my neighbourhood mourned your forgetting. Your dream remained distant, and a question: why have you gone?

Your heart was a tango, like a streetlamp in a little lane. Where might they be, butterfly, your painted mouth and your song?