vaso
desportillar.
1. tr. Deteriorar o maltratar algo, quitándole parte
del canto o boca y haciendo portillo o abertura. U. t. c.
prnl.
portillo.
(De puerta).
1. m. Abertura en una muralla, pared o tapia.
6. m. Entrada o salida que, para la consecución de
algo, queda abierta por falta de cuidado o de medios.
7. m. En algunas poblaciones, puerta no principal
por donde no podía entrar cosa que haya de adeudar derechos.
un silencio incómodo
Entre
otras cosas, la parábola de Wislawa podemos
enlazarla con el
Crusoe de Elizabeth, unos cuantos años de por medio, no tantos. Pertenecen
a una época, ambas, suficientemente cercana para que ya avistaran, desde su
privilegiada y costosa posición, que las generalidades nos iban a traer más de
un disgusto y que los paraísos no necesariamente iban a ser los que se
prometían.
Parábola
Ciertos pescadores sacaron del fondo una botella.
Había en la botella un papel, y en el papel estas palabras:
"¡Socorro!, estoy aquí. El océano me arrojó a una isla desierta.
Estoy en la orilla y espero ayuda. ¡Dense prisa. Estoy aquí!"
-No tiene fecha. Seguramente es ya demasiado tarde.
La botella pudo haber flotado mucho tiempo, dijo el pescador primero.
-Y el lugar no está indicado. Ni siquiera se sabe en qué océano,
dijo el pescador segundo.
-Ni demasiado tarde ni demasiado lejos. La isla "Aquí" está en todos lados,
dijo el pescador tercero.
El ambiente se volvió incómodo, cayó el silencio.
Las verdades generales tienen ese problema.
Wislawa Szymborska en versión de Gerardo Beltrán
pesos
Un mundo sobre el cuerpo
Todo pesa
Pesa decir
Pesa la
palabra peso
Pesa el cielo
que nos ha tocado
Sobre
nuestras cabezas herméticas
Pesan las
hormigas y sus burgos
El Hades y
las lagunas sucias
Dime a dónde
voy
Y si amar no
es una pérdida de tiempo
...
Pesa hablar
Pesa escuchar
Pesa herir
Pesa que te
hieran
Pesa el niño
sobrealimentado con leche artificial
Pesa pasar
hambre
Pesa la obesa
noche sin objetivo
El día sin
intención de luz
Dime a dónde
voy
Y si amar no
es una pérdida de tiempo
...
Pesa amar a
tu madre y a tu padre
A tus hijos y
a tus congéneres
Pesan los
sueños de los sueños
Pesan los
simples sueños
Pesan las
tiernas ilusiones
Pesa el piano
sobre tu cuerpo desnudo
Pesa amar el
bosque, el mar, la órbita insegura
Y la canción
con la que follaste la primera vez
Dime a dónde
voy
Y si amar no
es una pérdida de tiempo
...
Pesa vivir en
un planeta redondo
Pesa pertenecer
a un mundo con estrías
Pesa la
peluca que disimula el cáncer
Pesa la
belleza
Pesa el
milagro, el aburrimiento
Lo sagrado y
lo profano
De todas
todas, pesa el ser
Dime a dónde
voy
Y si amar no
es una pérdida de tiempo
...
Maite Dono
Elizabeth a punto de cumplir los siete años
In the waiting room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain --
Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance --
I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain --
Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance --
I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
Elizabeth Bishop.
Otra lectura, no de Elizabeth, está al final de esta página.
Y aquí, un análisis múltiple y exhaustivo.
Otra lectura, no de Elizabeth, está al final de esta página.
Y aquí, un análisis múltiple y exhaustivo.
Una versión
en castellano de Roser Amills Bibiloni:
En
la sala de espera
En
Worcester, Massachusetts,
acompañé
a Tía Consuelo
a
una cita con el dentista
y me
senté a esperarla
en
la sala de espera del dentista.
Era
invierno. Anocheció
temprano.
La sala de espera
estaba
llena de personas mayores,
catiuscas
y abrigos,
lámparas
y revistas.
Mi
tía estuvo dentro
lo
que me pareció una eternidad
y
mientras esperaba leí
el
National Geographic
(ya
sabía leer) y observé
las
fotografías con atención:
el
interior de un volcán,
negro
y lleno de cenizas;
después
aparecía vomitando
ríos
de fuego.
Osa
y Martin Johnson
vestidos
con pantalones de montar,
botines
y cascos de protección.
Un
hombre muerto colgando de un poste
-“Gran
Cerdo”, rezaba la inscripción-.
Bebés
con las cabezas puntiagudas
enrolladas
con vueltas y más vueltas de cuerda;
mujeres
negras, desnudas, con los cuellos
enrollados
con vueltas y más vueltas de alambre
como
el cuello de las bombillas.
Sus
senos eran horripilantes.
Leí
todo esto sin pausa.
Demasiado
turbada para parar.
Y
después contemplé la portada:
los
márgenes amarillos, la fecha.
De
pronto, desde dentro,
surgió
un ¡ay! de dolor
-la
voz de Tía Consuelo-
ni excesivamente
alto ni prolongado.
No
me sorprendió en absoluto;
por
entonces ya sabía que ella era
una
mujer tímida, estúpida.
Tal
vez debiera haberme sentido avergonzada,
pero
no lo estaba. Lo que me tomó
completamente
por sorpresa
fue
que había sido yo:
mi
voz, en mi boca.
Sin
darme cuenta
yo
era mi estúpida tía,
yo
-nosotras- estábamos cayendo, cayendo,
con
los ojos fijos en la portada
del
National Geographic,
febrero,
1918.
Me
dije: tres días
y
tendrás siete años.
Estuve
diciendo esto para detener
la
sensación de estar cayéndome
del
redondo, giratorio mundo
hacia
un frío espacio azul marino.
Pero
sentí: tú eres un yo,
eres
una Elizabeth,
eres
una de ellos.
¿Por
qué tienes también tú que ser única?
Apenas
me atrevía a mirar
para
averiguar lo que yo era.
Eché
un vistazo de reojo,
-era
incapaz de mirar más arriba-
hacia
las sombrías rodillas grises,
los
pantalones y faldas y botas
y
diferentes pares de manos
que
yacían bajo las lámparas.
Sabía
que nunca había sucedido
nada
extraño, que nada
extraño
podría suceder jamás.
¿Por
qué debía yo ser mi tía,
o
yo, o cualquier otra persona?
¿Qué
afinidades
-botas,
manos, la voz familiar
que
había sentido en mi garganta, o incluso
el
National Geographic
y
esos terribles senos colgantes-
nos
mantenían tan juntos
o
nos hacían uno solo?
Cuán
-no conocía ninguna
palabra
para designarlo- cuán “improbable”…
¿Cómo
había llegado yo hasta aquí,
igual
que ellos, y había oído por casualidad
un
grito de dolor que hubiera podido ser
peor
y más estridente pero no lo fue?
La
sala de espera era luminosa
y
estaba demasiado caldeada. Se desvanecía
bajo
una gigantesca ola negra,
otra,
y otra más.
Entonces
regresé.
La
Guerra estaba en marcha. Fuera,
en
Worcester, Massachussets,
había
la noche y la nieve aguada y el frío,
y
era aún cinco
de febrero, 1918.
de febrero, 1918.
de qué hablamos cuando hablamos de ballenas
Last great American whale
Album: New York (Lou Reed, 1989), written by Lou Reed
They say he didn't have an enemy
his was a greatness to behold
He was the last surviving progeny
the last one on this side of the world
He measured a half mile from tip to tail
silver and black with powerful fins
They say he could split a mountain in two
that's how we got the Grand Canyon
Last great American whale
last great American whale
Last great American whale
last great American whale
Some say they saw him at the Great Lakes
some say they saw him off of Florida
My mother said she saw him in Chinatown
but you can't always trust your mother
Off the Carolinas the sun shines brightly in the day
the lighthouse glows ghostly there at night
The chief of a local tribe had killed a racist mayor's son
and he'd been on death row since 1958
The mayor's kid was a rowdy pig
spit on Indians and lots worse
The old chief buried a hatchet in his head
life compared to death for him seemed worse
The tribal brothers gathered in the lighthouse to sing
and tried to conjure up a storm or rain
The harbor parted, the great whale sprang full up
and caused a hugh tidal wave
The wave crushed the jail and freed the chief
the tribe let out a roar
The whites were drowned, the browns and reds set free
but sadly one thing more
Some local yokel member of the NRA
kept a bazooka in his living room
And thinking he had the chief in his sight
blew the whale's brains out with a lead harpoon
Last great American whale
last great American whale
Last great American whale
last great American whale
Well Americans don't care for much of anything
land and water the least
And animal life is low on the totem pole
with human life not worth more than infected yeast
Americans don't care too much for beauty
they'll shit in a river, dump battery acid in a stream
They'll watch dead rats wash up on the beach
and complain if they can't swim
They say things are done for the majority
don't believe half of what you see and none of what you hear
It's like what my painter friend Donald said to me
"Stick a fork in their ass and turn them over, they're done"
"Stick a fork in their ass and turn them over, they're done"
de la extrañeza de vivir y añorar
The Kingdom of Ordinary Time. What the Living
Do. The Good Thief. Son los tres títulos de sus libros de poemas,
que traduzco como El reino del tiempo corriente, Lo que hacen los vivos y El
buen ladrón, de más reciente a más antiguo. Su hermano John murió de SIDA y de
ahí salió lo que salió. Pero su mirada, la de la hermana, debía tener una
formación previa, por más que ella afirme que la vida y la muerte de él cambió
su estética completamente.
What the living do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes
have piled up
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes
have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we
spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through
spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here
and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the
bag breaking,
and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the
bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
wrist and sleeve,
along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that
yearning.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that
yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to
pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and
then more of it.
pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and
then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a
cherishing so deep
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a
cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m
speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Marie Howe
Aquí hay un análisis muy interesante, por si alguien quiere más.
Aquí hay un análisis muy interesante, por si alguien quiere más.
otra visión del estrecho de Mesina, no más optimista
TERMINADO
En medio del temor y las sospechas,
con espíritu agitado y ojos de pavor,
nos consumimos y planeamos cómo hacer
para evitar el seguro
peligro que así terriblemente nos amenaza.
Y sin embargo estamos equivocados, ése no está en nuestro camino:
falsos eran los mensajes
(o no los escuchamos, o
no los entendimos bien).
Otra catástrofe, que no la imaginábamos,
repentina, violenta cae sobre nosotros,
y no preparados -de dónde tiempo ya- nos arrebata.
repentina, violenta cae sobre nosotros,
y no preparados -de dónde tiempo ya- nos arrebata.
C. Kavafis.
Traducción de Miguel Ángel Castillo
qué fea es la gente, Juan
Take the national express
When your life's in a mess
It'll make you smile
All human life is here
From the feeble old dear
To the screaming child
From the student who knows
That to have one of those
Would be suicide
To the family man
Manhandling the pram
With paternal pride
And everybody sings ba, ba, ba, da
We're going where the air is free
On the national express
There's a jolly hostess
Selling crisps and tea
She'll provide you with drinks
And theatrical winks
For a sky high fee
Mini-skirts were in style
When she danced down the aisle
Back in 63
(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
But its hard to get by
When your arse is the size
Of a small country
And everybody sings ba, ba, ba, da
We're going where the air is free
Tomorrow belongs to me
When you're sad and feeling blue
With nothing better to do
Don't just sit there feeling stressed
Take a trip on the national express
When your life's in a mess
It'll make you smile
All human life is here
From the feeble old dear
To the screaming child
From the student who knows
That to have one of those
Would be suicide
To the family man
Manhandling the pram
With paternal pride
And everybody sings ba, ba, ba, da
We're going where the air is free
On the national express
There's a jolly hostess
Selling crisps and tea
She'll provide you with drinks
And theatrical winks
For a sky high fee
Mini-skirts were in style
When she danced down the aisle
Back in 63
(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
But its hard to get by
When your arse is the size
Of a small country
And everybody sings ba, ba, ba, da
We're going where the air is free
Tomorrow belongs to me
When you're sad and feeling blue
With nothing better to do
Don't just sit there feeling stressed
Take a trip on the national express
cosas del ámbar
Quiero llegar a conocerte, conozco un sitio en la ciudad
donde poder charlar y acercarme a ti y decirte;
mira mis ojos cambian de color.
Quiero llegar a conocerte,
pero por hoy es suficiente
con hablar de amor y poder bailar, dejarnos llevar,
electricidad está en el aire y entre tú y yo eternidad,
y está en el agua, entre los dos.
Para llegar a conocerme debes buscarme entre la
gente y sacarme a bailar por toda la ciudad,
tendrás que hacerme tu baile especial,
para llegar a conocerme
debes mirarme suspirar y hacerme sentir diferente,
mira electricidad.
Electricidad, está en el aire,
entre tú y yo eternidad,
y está en el agua, entre los dos.
Si me pongo a pensar en los
dos se me eriza el cabello.
Sólo una vez voy a decirlo,
quiero estar aquí.
Si consigues llevar el compás, pintaré por encima.
De mí carta... hasta tu escuadra semicírculos
camino al lugar, ya quiero que se acabe ya
tan largo camino, camino al lugar,
ya quiero que se acabe ya tan largo camino,
mira mis ojos cambian de color.
Camino al lugar ya quiero que se
acabe ya tan largo camino, camino al lugar
ya quiero que se acabe ya tan largo camino.
donde poder charlar y acercarme a ti y decirte;
mira mis ojos cambian de color.
Quiero llegar a conocerte,
pero por hoy es suficiente
con hablar de amor y poder bailar, dejarnos llevar,
electricidad está en el aire y entre tú y yo eternidad,
y está en el agua, entre los dos.
Para llegar a conocerme debes buscarme entre la
gente y sacarme a bailar por toda la ciudad,
tendrás que hacerme tu baile especial,
para llegar a conocerme
debes mirarme suspirar y hacerme sentir diferente,
mira electricidad.
Electricidad, está en el aire,
entre tú y yo eternidad,
y está en el agua, entre los dos.
Si me pongo a pensar en los
dos se me eriza el cabello.
Sólo una vez voy a decirlo,
quiero estar aquí.
Si consigues llevar el compás, pintaré por encima.
De mí carta... hasta tu escuadra semicírculos
camino al lugar, ya quiero que se acabe ya
tan largo camino, camino al lugar,
ya quiero que se acabe ya tan largo camino,
mira mis ojos cambian de color.
Camino al lugar ya quiero que se
acabe ya tan largo camino, camino al lugar
ya quiero que se acabe ya tan largo camino.
de lo efímero
Algo tendrían que contar
las estaciones. Algo dirán las terminales de aeropuerto. Los bares donde
nacieron cinco de nuestras canciones, las noches en que tu chica te decía nunca
más. Quedó algo de nosotros en esos lugares, en el lavabo de señoras y en el puerto.
En la butaca del cine, en una boca de metro y en todas esas esquinas que
solíamos doblar. Es una historia que se escribe en los portales, la breve
intensidad de las primeras luces, y los conserjes de noche cuidan de los
hostales y todas las camareras que quisieron escuchar. Algo tendrían que contar
los escalones, con pantalones arrastrados por el suelo. Algo el asiento trasero
que me ofrecía tu coche y el humo del cenicero que acabó por rebosar. Es una
historia que se escribe en los portales, la breve intensidad de las primeras
luces, Y los conserjes de noche, cuidan de los hostales y todas las camareras
que quisieron escuchar. Tú siempre estabas dispuesta, es domingo por la tarde,
la suerte es una ramera de primera calidad. Y los conserjes de noche cuidan de
los hostales y todas las camareras que quisieron escuchar. Es una historia que
se escribe en las postales con la necesidad de madrugar los lunes. Tú siempre
estabas dispuesta, es domingo por la tarde, la suerte es una ramera de primera
calidad. Y los conserjes de noche cuidan de los hostales y todas las camareras
que quisieron escuchar. Tú siempre estabas dispuesta, es domingo por la tarde,
la suerte es una ramera de primera calidad. Y los conserjes de noche.
cachipolla.
1. f. Insecto de unos dos centímetros de largo, de
color ceniciento, con manchas oscuras en las alas y tres cerdas en la parte
posterior del cuerpo. Habita en las orillas del agua y apenas vive un día.
efímero, ra.
(Del gr. ἐφήμερος, de un día).
1. adj. Pasajero,
de corta duración.
dearest Robert
Once upon a time
you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"
You thought they were all kidding you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hanging out
Now you don't talk so loud
Now you don't seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you're going to have to get used to it
You said you'd never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him, "Do you want to make a deal?"
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They're drinking, thinking that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it, babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"
You thought they were all kidding you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hanging out
Now you don't talk so loud
Now you don't seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you're going to have to get used to it
You said you'd never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him, "Do you want to make a deal?"
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They're drinking, thinking that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it, babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
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