Once again the avenue of eucalyptus trees,
We were young
and despite Sartre and Williams
Our soul and bones were light.
A little frivolously we looked at stained glass windows
of things we could never buy,
we passed bars we had never visited
we sat down to have breakfast,
the city was a foreign staff
only the khaki aroma of the eucalyptus was
our. We were, friend, foreigners in the
great capital metropolis in the south of the
American continent,
We entered the Faculty of Letters hungry
and we left hungry,
We found the smell of bakeries insulting, at McDonald's we expected people to stand up and leave,
then laughing like rats we lay down
on the remains
while we talked about Hugo and Montparnasse, we dug into the potatoes while we swore that Macedonio was
our Christ, and we went out and the street was
another exile. We didn't even have our own shadow,
neither house nor pet, for all belongings
literary criticism buildings and bazaars
books at cost.
Countless lives have passed since that
youth that had us trapped in the immorality of immortality.
Today I go into cafes and I can pay for my BigMac,
They call me sir when I leave the cinema,
I enter bookstores disdaining the balances,
but you are not with me
and I, friend, am not with you.
We were rich, and we knew it. The sun was
ours and we laughed at romantic poetry.
Once again the avenue of eucalyptus trees,
only today my shadow is a shadow and nothing
more than shadow. And your shadow, my friend,
It's your shadow. And nothing but shadow.