If only I knew how to cut up a year and seasons
into four different pieces of similar size.
My stomach would be stable,
breathing would be easy,
I finally would be able to live my life clockwise.
But for me,
it's gotta be one long hot summer all through the year.
You were dressed up in nothing but your skin,
except for that sombrero,
without a brim,
the endless shadow we both lived in.
If only I knew how to stand all those showers,
those roaring long hours in the backyard of
my mind.
If I'd been born in December,
I wouldn't even have liked you.
I wouldn't know how to be tender,
faithful and true.
Because we are a summer breeze,
you are the air and I am the soil.
You must be blowing now fifty degrees,
the asphalt is burning beneath
the African sun.
It's a motor run.
Your feet
above the ground,
your head in a dream,
that dream in my head.
That dream in my head,
mistaking me.
Way
down south.
My traps are like teardrops,
I can't choke them back.
I've gotta go to the tropical zone of hunger,
thirst and love.
And I'll bring you some umbrella of all makes and sizes,
so when the African sun rises,
we'll laugh about this song.