Mi viejo el remendón
Alberto Mastra
My Old Patchworker
Fate of box cutters, soles, and seeds,
At the foot of the workbench in the old shed,
The hammer's strike sang early in the morning
To give us our stew, my old patchworker.
Putting patches of sorrows on sorrows
That, like a sentence, the old lady left him
And when she left us in that bitter moment
My grandma took care of my little brother and me.
Grandma
With red hair,
A short little lady, from Murano.
Poor thing!
Always fighting against fate
For her beloved grandchildren
From her artisan son.
And now,
How much, how much she would have given
To have them by her side, the nonna
And my old patchworker!
The ink on his hands, the sole and the knife
And the song of the hammer were his confession;
I don't know if he had time to know life,
For providing us food in loneliness and shed.
And I saw that, little by little, the years, the workbench,
Bent his knees without begging for forgiveness;
And so he left the world, taking with him
His shattered dream, my old patchworker.
