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,
the petals of the Arrabal
that every night evoke
seven sand boats,
nostalgic, love, poverty
or the ruin meaning of dieing
away from La Boca,
away forever
from that melancholic Arrabal