Cold showers

-Ignacio Cervantes

If you keep track of the notes row

you will see the water of the dance fall

and dance birds

and the touch of the rain would bring mercury

-the liquid element

that will brush your face and go down to the piano.

A row of lamps

marks the tropical route to eternity,

a line of young people who lower their heads as you pass by

in urban nights that turn into days

and weeks confined to pain

and casual sex

with people given to the inertia of pleasure

as reflective jewelry.

So the piano in the empty apartment in El Born

and the dance of Cervantes in your fingers

bring a smell of wet yard and creepers,

those street counterpoints of Havana

that sadden the soul until the final spurt:

both naked on the roof,

a thousand cold showers in that unique body

which is the amalgam of love.