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In one of the houses
Where’s a cup of coffee and a cigarette
Those, who’ll come
To know that we’re not here
Forgive us for this
This year the summer is so hot.

There, upstairs
the roof is so hot that it’s melting
Windows are opened
All are sleeping
It must be a thunderstorm.
The lightings are waiting
For the signal of contrabandist
And somewhere on the depth your altavista will come out.

And you’ll play
The ABC of Morse
And the symphony of Gluck
On your keyboard.
It’ll be so that
The sun, going down forever, stops
In this hot August.