The Wind Cries Mary

After all the jacks
are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed,
you can hear happiness staggering on down street.
Footprints dressed in red.

And the wind whispers Mary.

A broom is drearily sweeping up
the broken pieces of yesterday’s life.
Somewhere a queen is weeping.
Somewhere a king has no wife.

And the wind, it cries Mary.

The traffic lights, they turn blue tomorrow
and shine their emptiness down on my bed.
The tiny island sags downstream,
‘cause the life they lived is, is dead.

And the wind screams Mary.

Will the wind ever remember
the names it has blown in the past?
And with its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom,
it whispers "no, this will be the last."

And the wind cries Mary.

By Jimi Hendrix

La gota en el ojo (Rain) por Sumo

Rock it out, man.

Sing the song today.

Do it right, man.

Night & day.

Rain falls down on me.

Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain

falling down on me.

It falls on the trees

and it falls on the stones.

It falls on the earth

and old dry bones.

Rain falling all over the world.

Rain falling on the little boys & girls.

It falls in the puddles

and it falls in the snow.

It falls wherever you go

It falls in the desert

when you're dying of thirst.

It falls when you think

you're the last, but you're

the first.

rain...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttHUu0ftpIs

The rescuer, the joke and the thirst.

Can you take me to the extraction point?

I need some water. Hurry up!

There is another hostage in the dark
and their head shimmers under enemy's sight.

You only carry bodies to extraction fucking point, but
you never wonder where they go to

Where?

Somebody has picked them up when you went back.
The same one that ties their hands,
covers their mouths with silver tape, putting them in another place where you come back to rescue them, restless,
with empty canteen,
lately you promise them
an oasis-heaven drink.

Who is it? Is it doing a joke? We'll never know it.

Its name is the Thirst.

¿Cómo se despiden los amantes?

Si cabe la posibilidad de un momento para eso,

¿Logran alejarse y renunciar a sus bocas, recíprocamente?




¿Cómo es?

Imposibles amantes circunspectos

El collar abrazaba su cuello

Soy sigla, soy abalorio.
Soy las partes y el todo.

El collar abraza su cuello.

Ella es Pristine.

Ella es Pristine.
Camina desnuda por las calles.
Quienes la ven, todos, no pueden atraparla con las cámaras, y, en eso, su imagen se parece a su perfume: no pueden retenerla.
Ella es Pristine. Es una sola.
Los dedos no la tocan, las uñas no la desgarran.