Caracas, You and I
Caracas, you and I, what will we do tonight?
What movie shall we watch at the drive-in theater in the sky?
On what are we going to spend my last Bs. 3.75s?
In what stolen car shall we escape
at 180 km/h or more?
And tell me, where shall we hide
to cry out everything that hurts us?
Because I can’t forget about her, Caracas.
On all the covers of Bazaar,
of Cosmopolitan, of Playboy.
On all the backlit propaganda in the city.
At this moment, she is entering
10,000 hotel rooms
on the arm of my 10,000 rivals.
Everything reminds me of her.
The smell of cherries at three for five;
the ballad that managed to jump
out the window of an ’81 Mustang,
and even the face of the young man
that sells El Mundo on the corner
in some way resembles hers.
Why don’t we kill ourselves, Caracas?
It would be the most spectacular
of the passion suicides of the century.
Let us sink ourselves in a colossal earthquake.
Let us get into a radioactive cloud.
Let us burn like a Rome with skyscrapers.
But we’re both cowards.
You will continue to sow your concrete hyphae
on the cadavers of more than a million marginalized
and I, surely, will go one more time
to prowl beneath her window before dawn.
In the meantime, it will become night;
Pietro, the café owner,
will kick out his last client
and one more leaf will fall
from one of your trees.
Her and you, Caracas,
sink into me
like a stone dagger.