(A. Romano - R. Iorio)
In the filthy corners of Liniers I waste my days
Well, I don't have to escape.
The great attachment to the illusory is reflected in the stained glass windows
From a crooked shopping center.
Popular idolatry is drawn in long lines
To worship and not think.
The falsely miraculous dead stone of detour
It continues to hide the truth.
br/>Dissatisfied, renegades who deny themselves,
Lacking calm and mercy.
They look for the triangle in girls to feed their morbidity,
And masturbate in loneliness.
They also enjoy showing themselves innocent,
They are harpies, slaves to the television,
They live thinking about the external, they are addicted to life
They look for money and passion.
I only transmit what I observe,
It is not an invention of my mind, no.
This happens when I contemplate the present
In the streets of Liniers.
But when the sun, my faithful witness, hits the asphalt squarely
And melts the tar
The nauseating ferments of the stagnant garbage
They hinder my thinking.
On the corner a policeman is standing fighting with his female;
Well, she was never faithful to him
Under the passage of the tracks the beggars wallow
Very few want to look at them
And the verbena human horde that descends from the trains,
Desperate and crazy
It contaminates my head and I seek to love them no matter what
To never return.
I only transmit what I observe,
It is not a invention of my mind, no.
This happens when I contemplate the present
In the streets of Liniers.
In the streets, in the streets, in the streets of Liniers.

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