ON WORKING DAYS
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
where deserted hearts, encased in frost,
that on a Sunday numb with cold
and sad music stand and sing for us,
tiny faces shining timidly,
lips sealed by sadness,
lips never tasting a warm kiss
except the farewell kiss,
pale begging hands,
unworthy souls in supplication,
shadowed, blinded eyes
oh, saddened urging of mortality!
You too enrobed your death,
unfortunate, poor, graceful rose,
instead of sparkling with rosy joy,
you seemed a saint in tribulation,
your stem bent, kneeling,
praying the daily Epitaphios.
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
built for pitch black frost
built for the not buried souls,
the daily souls, lonely
for the remains and Sundays
of my soul, you, secret motherland
of my soul, frigid and resembling
a tray with cross and gold confection
and in its middle the holy candle
keeping vigil in the requiem of Love.
Libros Libertad 