Lyrics of 'Un mediodía triste' by Real de Catorce
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Un mediodía triste viendo el lomo gris del Metro
aplanando la banqueta mientras derrite el asfalto un sol blanco y voraz.
Pasan los "delfines" como almas en pena
consortes de la muerte que se sube al mundo sin pagar boleto.
El viento aúlla canciones flacas.
Gente (¡Hay una peste!) ...como esperando a Cristo.
Cristo está sentado seguramente...
en la tercera fila de un burlesque.
Hay un bar pequeño con la esquina verde
afuera dormita un organillero
tiene espesas cejas y babea alcohol
lo cubre la sombra de un ángel bluesero.
Poco movimiento, es temprana hora
la ciudad no muestra su cara granosa
supurante y roja; sus pelos al pecho
¡oh, oh, oh, ni su carne floja!
La tarde se sienta en el centro viejo
se baja las medias, corridas y sucias
menea sus pestañas de mujer nocturna
y deja caer la noche al abrir las piernas.
Podrías morir de una enfermedad que usa placa y corriente eléctrica
o sumergido en una plácida niebla de opio
o montado en las cálidas carnes de una mujer fenicia.
Podrías morir un día cualquiera
la hora poco importa
son tiempos oscuros.
¡Escucha atento a las sirenas!
De una madriguera surge la pandilla
por usar espuelas todos son buscados
como la marea de un mar iracundo
van cubriendo tramos de calles ajenas
embarran los muros de pintura roja
hay una emoción que fricciona el aire
aún no crecen flores en el pavimento
la ciudad se ha vuelto una novia amarga.
Tengo tres preguntas
responda el primero:
¿Quién mató la noche?
¿Quién abrió la puerta...
descifró este sueño
y se ocultó en el alba?
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