In the old part of my city
The tourists are photographed
For everybody
And for all the reasons,
They also photograph
Everything.
Thanks God that my soul
It is not revealed
By the lights of the flash
Because of being this way
Of being this way it would be exposed
In the lot that occupies
My lonely soul,
A heap of brash,
Old scrap,
Mixture of ruined madness
And of even wrapped up illusions
In their packing of production
Lips and loving arms,
Without being used for the first time,
Mountain of unpublished kisses
That I didn't dare to publish.
And if for some chance
I have been captured
For some indiscreet lens
I will move
Of a melancholic man
And twilight,
To the juggler that sings
Faking extreme happiness.
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