There’s a gilded girl in a westward door, who watches the northern traffic. She dreams about the end of the road; she’s heard about the cities of gold. And she hopes she can get there dancing.
There’s an aimless boy who’ll never grow old, and he’ll be talking all his life. He dreams that they will make his city shine and a golden girl he will find, as he makes the dancing girl his wife.
Sometimes it’s hard to know the time; so many clocks are rusted. But not all that’s gold will glitter, and not all that shines can be trusted.
I pulled into town in reverse. In my rearview mirror I saw a thumb and a girl. I opened my windows and locked my doors. She asked me for a date – she wanted more. I saw her ring and played dumb.
Miss Mazatlán – did I miss Mazatlán? When we kissed, whose eyes were open? You held me tight; you took off my clothes; you lay me on your brass bed, a token. But have I seen you naked?
Sometimes it’s hard to know the time; so many clocks are busted. But not all that’s gold will glitter, and not all that shines can be trusted.
Tantos cuentos relegados. Tantos tiempos borrados. Todo por un sueño dorado.
Tracy Duvall 