Los hermosos vencidos

Idiots and Angels

who hasn't dreamed of flying to the light...

our world is full of broken wings.

My feathers fall more in October,
they fall and fuck the morning coffee
and carefully
I have to pick them up from fountains,
from puddles or toilets,
and dry them
or shake the dust out,
and walk again with the burden in my back
and get lost again.

I have carried my wings many times
when they fall defeated
like a wounded raven,
leaving a trail of blood and tears
in the darkened streets I walk through.
I have stayed long nights repairing
the fragile bones that form them,
stapling the fallen feathers
I find in the ice after the storm.

Many times I have wished
to pull them out from my back
- bury them somewhere across the ocean,
and then maybe I could cut a little off
the shadow I project and chases me.

But my wings give me gold
mixed into the shadow.
And so
I have learned
to love them a little,
and I play an angel everytime
I see ghosts upon the showers.


And everyday another step
with the wings in my back,
I say, fires that fade
little by little,
door by door,
heart by heart.
Like the song of water circling
skull vomiting shipwrecks
and deep magnolia sewers.