poema de rober

The morning is cold and damp (10 o´clock).
I like sitting alone on the same chair,
coffee cup on the right, in this (my) terrace.
I can´t resist slurping with a sort of lust.
For half an hour the only change is the smile of
the neighbours, my blessed people.
At 11.15 my eyes are just anonymous guests on a
ceremony of no religion.

But in a sudden there he is, right in front of my empty cup.
An old bald man starts playing Shubert in his violin.
The waitress smiles at him (he´s really there).
My voice sounds rigid: Uncle Paco you are dead.
You are right, dear nephew, but I come here because of
the acoustics of this place. And please don´t tell the family.
It´s getting late, I´ll finish with Beethoven (heavenly).
I feel really happy to see you again,
And don´t think about this too much.
Life and Death are just words.
11.45 I ask for another coffee.
I feel a bit tired.

Comentarios & Opiniones

María del Rocío



Hermoso poema. LLeno de vida...y de muerte. Me alegra haberlo metido al traductor. Saludos.


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