I greet you, Granjuán. You know, today was extraordinary. So, to tell you about it, I chose a slightly less ordinary route. Or more, who knows. You will tell me.
Here it goes, with a big hug and the metric of the national poem, the Martín Fierro:
Here I start to sing
a victory like few others
one that under the spotlight
from such a far away stadium
got the brothers
of this crazy band.
They were eleven and they were so many,
all with one intention:
give one’s heart
that another lap had lost:
they wanted the wounded hero
conquer your illusion.
that’s what they worked for
like dogs without breath:
It was emotional, it was beautiful,
watch them run and run,
watch them play and know
It wasn’t just for them.
It was for him and for so many
who expected victory
to get off the ferris wheel
in which they live every day.
And if they don’t come out they would come out
on this night of glory
For that He also ran:
returned to what it was before
as if never the years
have passed through his body:
yes it seemed haunted
throwing passes and pipes.
I call him He out of respect
and because it doesn’t rhyme.
Neither you nor you nor my cousin
they will know what to rhyme with Messi.
Me neither, so neither esi;
it is He or nothing, and He dominates.
There are so many others, sure.
but none so cool
like that boy full
of cheeks in the pimples:
He looked more than human
pure goal, pure poison.
They say that Spider they tell him
and it sounds like no to me;
what I think to see it
is that the pimply kid
you can beat the wind
and you have to call him a lion.
Alone he scored two goals
and gave Him the first;
He in return in the third
He told him take it and do it;
not a hair moved
when the entrevero closed.
And there are many more, of course:
that band of partners
they are that weird and fulero
that there they call team:
some tigers, some guys
looking for the same star
It’s a team and it’s weird:
in general it is noticeable
to the footballer the broken
temptation to stand out.
Here they think about getting together
and melt into the ball.
And by melting they melted
to the poor Croatian:
they stepped on them like rats,
they left them naked
with broken hopes
and asking for his father.
come on come on argentina
They sang everywhere.
Come on, this art is art
to play and not to play,
to win and yes win
and that they all separate.
They were eleven and several thousand
and thousands cheered them on
but they also shouted:
it was so nice to hear
when they went to chant
the songs they sang.
It was a resounding triumph
and he did not seem Argentine
he was missing on his way
the usual suffering,
the sidereal drowning
that seemed our fate.
Look, I thought, if we learn
to win without suffering so much,
no need to cry
nor to pass them canutas.
So it would be, without dispute,
life a kind song.
in the end in the end
we are already and only remains
to complete the wheel
of sovereign destiny
that he and his twenty brothers
lift it up, don’t give it up.
But there’s no need to talk about this:
for talking so often
the dumbest are lost
and the cunning do not win.
I want to rhyme but I mutate
and I stay in the greeting.
Health, health, good night.
Health, health, see you soon.
that if I ride I don’t ride
on the right horse
and I escape in a sonnet
as I am: an old fool.
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