The Old Man
So many flocks have gone by, so many poor
and rich horse riders, others
from far away villages had spent
the night in the ditches of the main road
lighting fires to keep wolves away, you see
the ashes? Blackish circles almost healed.
He is full of marks like the road.
Farther up they threw the rabid dogs
in the dry well, he has no eyes he is full
of marks and he is light; the wind blows
he distinguishes nothing, he knows everything
empty sheath of a cicada in the hollow tree
he has no eyes, not even in his hands, he knows
dawn from dusk, he knows the stars
their blood doesn’t nourish him, he is not even dead
he has no race, he won’t die
they’ll simply forget him, he has no ancestors.
His tired fingernails
inscribe crosses on decayed memories
as the turbid wind blows. It snows.
I saw the hoarfrost around the faces
I saw the moist lips, the frozen tears
in the corner of the eye, I saw the line
of pain next to his nostrils and the effort
at the roots of his hand, I saw the body coming to its end.
This shadow is not alone tied
on a dry walking unbendable stick
he doesn’t bend to lie down, he can not;
sleep would have scattered his joints
as playthings in the hands of children
He commands like the dead branches
that break at twilight and
the wind wakes in the ravines
he commands the shadows of men
not the man in the shadow
that doesn’t hear but the low voice
of earth and pelagos where they meet
with the voice of fate. He stands upright
by the shore, among piles of bones
among heaps of yellow leaves
empty cage waiting
for the hour of fire.
Libros Libertad 