Picasso
For Pablo Picasso
The matador after all lives in Ellassona
by the cobblestone square under the plane trees
and the café owner goes back and forth refilling
his cup of coffee and the smoke of his narghile
while the hours of the day
pass nostalgically
and myriads of birds gather
in the branches of the plane trees
that means sundown is upon them
then the plotters slip out of the side street
the night falls silently and helps them
to gather like the birds, but unseen
and where they want
while heavy tears drip down their crafty eyes
and the mother, who wants to stop the fascists
inside the dark room where the plotters discuss things
and peppers dry up hanging from the ceiling,
with her knotty hands adorned with rings,
takes off the glass of the lamp and lights it
then she quietly wipes with her apron
her knotty hands dirtied by the oil
and as we said she wants to stop the killers
the old woman takes the lamp from the table
and opens the window in a rush
and, in the night, she extends the lit lamp
out of the window
old mother, they tell her
where are you taking the lamp?
However, no suspicious shadows with
machine gun underarms moved in fields of Avila
and seen from afar, the light outside
of the window shone like a star
and guitars were heard echoing slowly
and the gypsy girls started their dance.
Girls with wide pelvis and fluttering
colourful loosened dresses
while from their hot, and crayoned lips
wild cries of pain were heard
like words of a song: “I’ll tell you
about my loneliness with Soleares”
and the major guitars went frenetic
and the fascist murderers were shooting at the crowd
and they tramped my heart
with their satin high-heeled shoes
striking the cobblestone road
then something happens to make you lose your mind
when a red-haired bull jumped in the middle
flames fired up from his nostrils and
the banderillas painfully poked his shoulder
and back
and he started butting here and there
to gore
to deeply pierce the flesh with his horns
and toss up in the air each person
he butted
and a mountain of bodies were piled
bodies of men and horses
in rivers of blood
(banderillas painfully decorated his neck and back)
and the girls with the beautiful breasts lay down
on their backs
and suns went down and rose again,
in their beautiful eyes
Libros Libertad 