O are you again chasing the crazy
Silver in a vast river
That flows with muddy dreams
And rippled waters like divine hope
And escape from all that does not work
In reality. In ships with heavy anchor
The only salvation in squalls and storms
Myths and utopias of Caesars and giants
Plates of gold or peace at last
O have they said there is a pure land
Of goodness and truth, or dripping with silver
Deep in the interior like a warm womb
Or a clearing in the forest where no dogs bark
And no savages attack you as you prepare your supper
And the Virgin protects even the roughest man
And the stars encircle the most perfect sky
They are counting their money from the day
I am pondering my dubious poetry,
Everyone pursues something to keep their heads
Above water, that might gurgle them down to death,
From the temporary, precarious realm of living
Just outside all Eternity`s play
Of endless inorganic and lifeless day
I wander the streets, I buy a book of Lorca
From a kiosk; with dictionary in hand,
Wine from Mendoza, and a dish of spaghetti,
I take in the wonder, the cricket singing
Beneath the moon, your blue and orange
Ribbon, the afternoon that paints your mouth
As it passes through the mountain.
Yellow cupola, wind of silver,
Dios mío, I have come
With the seeds of questions!
I plant them, but they do not flower.
O Lorca! And to be in Buenos Aires,
Like Rome if like anywhere else -
O world! O gift! O time!
As I take a drink, a heavy, hot cocktail of Lancia,
And the star-trails plunge down to earth,
Knocking out the juices of ground-level dreams,
And the air above is still in a night-blue
Sky; poetry is still a dark, difficult journey,
As Joy soon swings into downward Pain.