VENTANITA
DE ARRABAL.

In the Caferata neighborhood, in an old tenement, with brick floors and no entrance partition door at all, where the barrel organs go by grumbling their lament, the girl is waiting for that young man to pass.

The one who, all alone, came into the tenement, his brown felt hat pulled low over his eyes; one-piece ankle boots, a gleaming collar, he asked for a guitar and sang for her.

The one with whom, one Sunday, she danced a tango; the one who told her: “I'm dying for you”; the one who dragged her little soul through the mire, the one who never again came back to the window bars.

Little window of the room where there are only dried flowers, you too were left abandoned from that day on.

The dew on their leaves, the drizzles of absence, with the sorrow of a sigh, shattered your little stem.