I was always in plain and flat lands,

Prowling through the forests that wreathe lakes and rivers,

Because there should be a harbor

Against which I could spread my wings.

At night, I was this huge outline

Sketched on the motionless lake

And I flied alone,

Shedding graffiti feathers in the chiaroscuro of the air,

And I was able to be lines as free as the strokes of the quixotic swordsman.

And the violet vaults opened up just for my wings to grow

Like inflatable toys blew by nightwalkers German angels,

Who are so sad under the Berlin sky.

But there was no Berlin;

It was just tropical swamps and toad’s polyphonic chants.

A smell of ox manure makes my flight too heavy

And I can’t be free anymore.

I have to exercise the wings fencing;

Lose feathers in order to destroy the composition of the lake,

That inertia I love so much.

Suddenly I’m an urban man heedful to the fireworks explosions

And ancient vehicles running along the highway.

The swordsman who I flutter for

Left to Scandinavia in melting point.

The night is dead and so are the wings

That I put by the door,

Like two dirty fineries.