In the tango fumes
as evening fell
in San Telmo
a couple was having the first photos taken
since their marriage.
You watched her with a sort of gaiety and disdain.
I watched him, with such envy.
Those were the fine days of Buenos Aires,
not like today
when, who knows where
or who with
you must be more beautiful than ever
more radiant
taller than the very clouds
and I, worse than alone
repeat over and over
that you are my only love
and my only happiness.