Jinete en la tormenta

There's blood in the streets, it's up to my ankles
She came
There's blood on the streets, it's up to my knee
She came
Blood on the streets in the town of Chicago
She came
Blood on the rise, it's following me
Think about the break of day
She came and then she drove away
Sunlight in her hair
She came
Blood in the streets runs a river of sadness
She came
Blood in the streets it's up to my thigh
She came
Yeah the river runs red down the legs of the city
She came
The women are crying rivers of weepin'
She came into town and then she drove away
Sunlight in her hair
Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind
Blood in the streets in the town of New Haven
Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice
Blood in my love in the terrible summer
Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.
Blood screams the pain as they chop off her fingers
Blood will be born in the birth of a nation
Blood is the rose of mysterious union
There's blood in the streets, it's up to my ankles
Blood in the streets, it's up to my knee
Blood in the streets in the town of Chicago
Blood on the rise, it's following me

Ayer, en el weblog de Clarín, salió una nota recordando a un gran artista prolífico que nos llenó de arte en la década del '60 y parte de la del '70.

A pesar de que la nota a veces es media pesada y parece restarle importancia a las cualidades artísticas del Rey Lagarto cuando empieza a hablar de que era bien parecido y bla, bla, bla.

En lo personal, y en materia de música, creo que con Jim Morrison es con quién más me siento reflejado. Desde los poemas que escribió, desde las letras excelentes de The Doors hasta cuando hacía declaraciones. Fue un artista excepcional y que hace mucha falta en estos tiempos.

Salud por el Chamán de los chamanes, que el pasado 8 de Diciembre hubiera cumplido 63 años.