Every evening, the same girl waits

In the same square, the same bench,

Like a forgotten Madonna,

Her legs crossed.

She travels amidst houses,

In the blue night of televisions,

As light ghosts,

Veils of smoke.

 

They say she has rooms in town,

They say she sleeps on the side,

That she’s rather easy-going,

That one never disturbs her,

That there are heaps of cats sleeping

Across on her pillows,

Among the perfume of men.

And even if this all was true…

 

In the middle of leaves and twigs

She does her show on stilettos,

She plays her silent movie,

She stretches out her nets.

And on the paths of the square is printed

The step of her future victims

Who will come to set their hearts on fire

Of strange lights.

 

We say she is the faithful friend

Of those who dare not to speak,

That she knows the sirens song,

That she can also whisper it,

That there are lots of people who love her

And never smile to her,

That they are never the same.

And even if all this was true.

 

 

 

Whatever the walls protecting you,

One evening you will find yourself trapped,

That evening when you will have become

One more shadow.

 

For, every evening, the same girl waits

In the same square and on the same bench,

Like a forgotten Madonna

Her legs crossed.