Listen to the old
when they tell you that all the crazy rock songs,
that all the banditry of liberty and
sidereal thing of flight and the mouth that
kiss in the rain
it's all a big scam
a tangle of fables that are narrated with
a single purpose: that hostels proliferate.
Yes. It sounds like a joke. It seems I'm joking.
But listen to the old ones.
In less than five years I am turning half a century:
and no one, no matter how stupid they may be, can remain on planet Earth without having
learned to cry a little, to laugh a little
and to guess, under painted cardboard
sex, smiles, songs, trips, complicities,
the subtle and terrible bear trap.
Silly bears who believe that happiness is
permanent movement. madness of
paratroopers.
Pay attention to this old man: when you drink a mate looking at the sky and looking for the
shape of a dromedary cloud and be calm, have a calm little heart,
fuck you to the painted cardboard
to the songs of Silvio
to Lone Wolf's appetite.
That madness and sadness and planes are left over.
But a rich mate with a calm heart
without waiting for anything other than lunch time,
brother, listen to the old:
that is paradise.
