I want to return there, where so many things were left behind.
Where have I ended up? At what island have I shipwrecked?

There I run after a skirt that fleed terrified.
Where is that girl now I can still remember me

attentive, following her steps, hiding in the dark
from a deserted corner. It's there I'd often like to return.

There, there was a universe and a toy jail.
"Mr. Serrano: to the blackboard". "Mr. Serrano?" "Present!".

I learned there to live, and also to recite
with little precision the imperfect past tense of the verb 'to love'.

There was someone who knew, and during most school breaks
unveiled the mysteries of female anatomy.

And finally liberation, uncontrolled pack of children.
Parents exchanging cards, liquorice root ¹ for boys and girls.

And girls.

I left there my bottle caps forgotten in some puddle.
I can't remember anymore how many things I forgot there.

There grew at night
horrendous ghost monsters,
sweeter than those that assault us at night nowadays.

If I could go back there, oh, if I could.
If I can no longer recognize the neighborhood, it was devoured by concrete.

I dreamt there everyday about escaping through the windows
and walking away among the roof tiles over the rooftops that could be seen

from my house.

I remember there the windows were smaller.
Now they're big, huge, but I barely see through them.

I barely see through them.
I barely see through them.