A Homero · Aníbal Troilo · 1961

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Fueron años de cercos y glicinas, de la vida en orsay, del tiempo loco. Tu frente triste de pensar la vida tiraba madrugadas por los ojos... Y estaba el terraplén con todo el cielo, la esquina del zanjón, la casa azul. Todo se fue trepando su misterio por los repechos de tu barrio sur. Vamos, vení de nuevo a las doce... Vamos que está esperando Barquina. Vamos... ¿No ves que Pepe esta noche, no ves que el viejo esta noche no va a faltar a la cita?... Vamos... Total al fin nada es cierto y estás, hermano, despierto juntito a Discepolín... Ya punteaba la muerte su milonga, tu voz calló el adiós que nos dolía; de tanto andar sobrándole a las cosas prendido en un final, falló la vida. Yo sé que no vendrás pero, aunque cursi, te esperará lo mismo el paredón, y el tres y dos de la parada inútil y el resto fraternal de nuestro amor...

English · machine translation

They were years of fences and wisteria, of life in orsay, of crazy time. Your sad forehead of thinking about life threw early mornings through your eyes... And there was the embankment with all the sky, the corner of the ditch, the blue house. Everything was climbing its mystery up the slopes of your southern neighborhood. Let's go, come again at twelve o'clock... Come on Barquina is waiting for you. Come on, come on... Don't you see that Pepe tonight, don't you see that the old man tonight is not going to miss the date?.... Let's go... At last nothing is certain and you are, brother, awake together with Discepolín... Death was already punctuating his milonga, your voice silenced the goodbye that hurt us; from so much walking around, surplus to things... caught in an end, life failed. I know you won't come but, although corny, the wall will be waiting for you just the same, and the three and two of the useless stop and the fraternal rest of our love...