Silvio Rodriguez
Miscellaneous
Where do they go?
Where do the words that didn't stay go?
Where do the looks that left one day go?
Do they float eternally, like prisoners of a gale?
Or do they huddle between the slits, seeking warmth?
Do they roll over the glass, like raindrops that want to
pass away?
Do they never become something again? Are they leaving?
And where are they going? Where are they going?
What have my old shoes become?
Where did so many leaves from a tree go?
Where do they go? Are the anguish that jumped out of your eyes for me?
Where did my words dirty with April blood go?
Where do these bodies go right now, that I can never leave of
illuminating?
Do they never become something again? Are they leaving?
And where are they going? Where do they go?
Where does the common, the everyday go?
The removal of shoes at the door, the helping hand?
Where does the surprise, almost everyday at sunset?
Where does the tablecloth go, yesterday's coffee?
Where do the small terrible charms that the home has?
Do they never become something again? Are they leaving?
And where are they going? Where are they going?

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