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I point my finger at the heart of Europe,
I'm here.
The engine sleeps in the sun,
you can't wake up.
In the yellow wheat midday I
I lie down in the shade of my shadow.
I point my elbows to the heart of the earth,
I am here.
Fresh thorns of beer in my veins:
I think of myself.
/>Completely a street cat who,
wherever he goes, resists and
conquers a place for himself.
And the storm travels with me
which dishevels the thoughts in the heads of those
He claims to look inside me
to know my center.
Why? Aren't you all here
pushing my wagon that doesn't work?
In the midst of this strange nothingness
of the Indian desert,
I would like you here.
I mourn the eyes in the heart of silence,
I think of those who
should wait for me
you don't die, not for me,
completely wild cat who,
if it's worth the journey, it moves and
finds you and comes to you.
And my skin travels with me
which lights up your stars, if you have any