Like someone traveling on the back of a shadowy mare
I walk through the city
Don't ask where?
And I find nothing but doors
That deny what they hide
The chimneys pour
Their vomit of smoke
To one sky at a time
Further and higher
Across the ocher walls
The juice is spilled
Of a blood fruit
Grown on the asphalt
Now, the field will be green
It must be spring
It crosses my gaze
An endless train
The neighborhood where I live
It is not a meadow
Desolate landscape
Of antennas and cables
I live at number seven
Melancholic street
I have wanted to move years ago
To the neighborhood of joy Âa
But every time I try
The tram has already left
On the stairs I sit
To whistle my melody
Like someone traveling on board
Of a maddened ship
That comes from the night
And goes nowhere
Thus my feet descend
The slope of oblivion
Weary of so much
Walking without finding you
Then back home
I light a cigarette
I organize my papers
I solve a crossword puzzle
I get angry with the shadows
That populate the hallways
And I embrace the absence
That you leave in my bed
I climb through your memory
Like a creeper
That can't find windows
Where to hold on
I am that absurd epidemic
That the sidewalks suffer
If you want to find me
You already know where I am
I live at number seven
I live at number seven
I live in number seven

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