Picture a late night stroll along Corso Buenos Aires, one of Milan’s busiest streets, where shop windows glow and memories linger. Baby K’s narrator bumps into an ex-lover amid the city lights and finds herself pierced by “cento lame” – a hundred blades – every time his eyes lock onto hers. The lyrics mix poetic images (the moon as a gunshot, apologies as machine-gun fire) with everyday heartbreak, showing that sometimes the end of a story is the only place to start standing up again.
At its core the song is a bittersweet anthem of self-preservation. The protagonist remembers tears, lies, and promises like “sei tutto quello che ho” (you are all I have) yet chooses not to fall for them anymore. While smoke drifts away and the wind carries it off, she realizes that letting go, no matter how painful, is better than betraying herself. “Buenos Aires” turns a random street encounter into a cinematic scene of love lost and strength regained, making every listener feel both the sting of the blades and the relief of walking away.