Man spends his evenings in the bar Barraco,
when too many people gather around the perfectly shaped wooden bench
that serves as a bar where the bartender is busy as the night is encroaching
from every corner of the city down down down
to this open yard;
man is at ease with the hands of the clock striking again and again
in a bizarre pattern – and the music is too loud as Barraco is loud.
usually on Fridays, man talks and talks in different languages;
different languages merge into a sea and inundates the world
that has its origin in an empty gin bottle;
man is suddenly drowned and alone and feels the alcohol like narcotics ;
his own body drifts away where no sound is heard
but his own desolate self whimpers.
– and the music should be louder as Barraco is quiet.
I live but two floors above Barraco;
I see the evenings drive man into the bar ,
terrible evenings, wonderful evenings ,
evenings when my beautiful friends walk the street
and evenings when the homeless are beaten with a truncheon.
I keep myself shut above Barraco where the gate opens to all and happy,
until one day I’m denied the grandeur of life; it continues there
in the bar Barraco.