I have a cousin who is a master
of mine, of yours, of ours;
a luxury for the soul and the ear,
a way to take revenge for oblivion.
Looking mouth,
Vain of Istanbul, King of Algeciras.
That tormenting man comes from Poble Sec
universal, charnego and transhumant,
What does it take out, when you least expect it,
doves of peace from his top hat.
And when he sings
her heart trembles in her throat.
Sick of being sick of borders
is asking for stairs to climb
from your skirt to your blouse, knock on wood:
a guy like that should be forbidden.
Behind are the people who need
his blessed music more than eating
and the century that strips its daisy.
As a young man, I would like to be like him.
I have a cousin who is everyone’s cousin
each in his own way and in his own way;
crazy hidalgo with Mambrino helmet
that does not fear giants or mills
and when he wins
Barça believes that there is God and is Barça.
What little seriousness, what a bad example
for the merchants of the temples
that alchemist of emotions
that heals wounds with songs.
My cousin the Nano,
that I do not touch anything and is my brother.
Sick of being sick of borders
is asking for stairs to climb
from your skirt to your blouse, knock on wood:
a guy like that would have to be prohibited.
Behind are the people who need
his blessed music more than eating
and the century that strips its daisy.
As a young man, I would like to be the way it is
my cousin Joan Manuel.