Dedicated to Joaquín Sabina
your throat is made of ashen land,
usual dwelling of truthfulness,
that are only truth if sung by you.
Cicada in the misunderstood sidewalk,
minstrel of failure, incorrigible,
street guitar in the corner,
verger look, awful verse.
Can you believe it,
twenty years ago,
soundtrack of passer-bys
in the subway stations of Madrid.
Can you believe it,
so unimportant,
that the Cibeles would be suspicious
because you never sing around there any more.
Quixote in a world of go-getters,
smack of the established power,
that searches for Dulcinea of Toboso
and picks Jimena up on the way.
You could have been, I don’t doubt it,
banker or prime minister,
but you’re incapable since you were a child
of picking not even someone else’s pencil.
Can you believe it,
twenty years ago,
soundtrack of passer-bys
in the subway stations of Madrid.
Can you believe it,
so unimportant,
that the Cibeles would be suspicious
because you never sing around there any more.
Gipsy who gives away talent,
to causes that require poetry,
weather vane that obeys a single wind,
calm of Melancholy Street.
Quevedo with Bob Dylan’s ways,
inseparable friend of the Moon,
chords and verses make your fortune,
of breeding and star whatever they say.
Can you believe it,
twenty years ago,
soundtrack of passer-bys
in the subway stations of Madrid.
Can you believe it,
so unimportant,
that the Cibeles would be suspicious
because you never sing around there any more.
Olive groves inhabit your eyes,
your throat is made of ashen land,
usual dwelling of truthfulness,
that are only truth if sung by you.
10 comments November 27th, 2004
