Margo has returned to town
with a most bitter tango.
Her weariness is so profound
that the weariness got the best of her.
In the past, night after night,
she sang like a cricket until dawn
but never as much as now
was she forced to give up.
What is she up to? Where is she going
with that most bitter tango?
Margo has wept so much
that she moves you to tears.

Yesterday, she thought, “I will succeed today”. And today is impossible.
Life defeated her hope.
Paris
was dark and she sang her happy tango,
without realising, poor girl…
that Paris feeds itself with the short,
brutal end of a magnolia
covered by snow.
And then,
once more Buenos Aires,
and Margo, once more,
without song or faith.

(“She went down the wrong path”,
they told me today,
but in my prayer I told God:
Margo has always been purer
than the moon above the sea.)
She has had to cry so much
that she was left without tears,
but unlike ever before,
the tears are replaced by blood.
Her friends, who are no longer there,
are the sound of the bitter tango.
Margo has wept so much
that she moves you to tears.