La Boca sleeps quietly.
The wind doesn’t steal
its proud of being painted
with dirty argentine waters
from The Riachuelo that bleeds,
smoke, sand, gods and dance,
bitches tango’s roses,

God does not understand,
God does not listen to,
God never fears.
It has born in the heart of my doubt
the infinite pain calmed
by an atomic and broken false mean.
What is the life?