Con la camisa rota - Marea

Vengo a robarte la siesta con la manilla del desván

Con toses de carretero vengo vendiendo cal

Y es que traigo colmo en los cajones

De hollín de mis pulmones, de agujas de tejer

Chispas del cruzar de cables de ojitos miserables

Que no quisieron ver

Vengo de trenzar esparto para la reja de un penal

Despeinando a la tristeza, que está recién pintá

Y es que guardo su lamento quedo

Goteando entre los dedos en cántaros de cinc

Y en zurrones de miseria, bombillas de la feria

Perfume de alperchín

Y me voy con la camisa rota

Porque me he hecho una bandera

Con guirnaldas de guijarros

Plumas de palomas negras

Que el verso que le di al aire

Muere de cualquier manera

Y en el cielo de tu boca

Se lo comerá la niebla

Vengo a herrar a las orugas para después condecorar

A las abejas que no venden la miel de su panal

Y es que traigo nubes de rabieta que inunden las macetas

De ganas de encallar

Lagrimitas traicioneras, tiñendo las bañeras…

…cuchillas de afeitar

Y me voy con la camisa rota

Porque me he hecho una bandera

Con guirnaldas de guijarros

Plumas de palomas negras

Que el verso que le di al aire

Muere de cualquier manera

Y en el cielo de tu boca

Se lo comerá la niebla

I come to steal your nap with the attic handle

With the cough of a carter I have been selling lime

And it is that I bring high in the drawers

From soot from my lungs, from knitting needles

Sparks from the crossing of wires from miserable little eyes

that they did not want to see

I come from braiding esparto grass for the fence of a prison

disheveling sadness, which is freshly painted

And it is that I keep your lament

Dripping between the fingers in zinc pitchers

And in bags of misery, light bulbs from the fair

alperchín perfume

And I leave with a torn shirt

Because I have made a flag

With pebble garlands

black pigeon feathers

That the verse that I gave to the air

die anyway

And in the sky of your mouth

The fog will eat it

I come to shoe the caterpillars to later decorate

To the bees that do not sell the honey from their honeycomb

And it is that I bring clouds of tantrums that flood the pots

wanting to run aground

Treacherous little tears, staining the bathtubs…

…razor blades

And I leave with a torn shirt

Because I have made a flag

With pebble garlands

black pigeon feathers

That the verse that I gave to the air

die anyway

And in the sky of your mouth

The fog will eat it