I could be in Istanbul
watching a grey bird scampering down the sidewalk,
or sitting at a table in Paris
smoking like Camus crossing a boulevard,
in Tokyo, in La Paz, Montevideo, Liverpool,
in any other city
doing anything else,
I could even have been born a bull
or a butterfly, an undertaker,
a hooligan, a yuppie, a bellboy in Madrid,
yet here I am at six fifty
in the morning
in a city that chance named La Plata,
writing a poem that will be forgotten
because everything is swallowed up by the river of time,
and I would not change this destiny
in which I am León Peredo
and in which I must enter a school
in a few minutes to talk about Paul Auster
something that except Nobody is too interested in, this destiny bordered by fragrances
and storms, this beautiful life here today now,
despite its problems. No.
I would not choose under any circumstances to be
a millionaire sheikh, I would not change this
human destiny that fell to me in the fortunes
of walking the streets hand in hand with you, love.