My hands and these streets are like sheets of ice.
I look for you, lost in San Telmo,
hanging from the wires between the roofs.
The rain falls like an old Stones song,
like the angel they pushed from a plane.
And it's always Thursday in Plaza de Mayo1.
I look for you behind the steam on the window of the colectivo2
and, at dinner, my wicked friends
ask me about you over and over.
And faces fall in the puddles in Corrientes3,
under dry leaves people keep their dreams.
And in the storm, escaping senators,
broken glass before the Casa Rosada4.
Cars go by slowly like an elephant pack,
in the dark a woman offers me maté
and Charlie5 jumps from a skycraper for me.
Today Boca6 wins and a young woman that reminds me of you
packs her bags. The FMI undresses you in the worst winter.
Today I left you this city recorded in the answering machine.
In the background you can hear, he sings even better,
"Siglo veinte, cambalache, problemático y febril"7.
And you hum a Redondos8 song.
I'll go to the river today, I'll look for you at its bottom.
Mafalda9 plays 'nuclear war'.
I'll go to San Telmo, I have to find you today.