El poncho

(Style)

Being a kid, my father died in a fight. Brave as anyone, or maybe more, I say...

And from his life remained,
that broke from the root,
from that good happy time,
belt, precious balls,
purses and, among other things,
a beautiful gray poncho.

Lovely poncho indeed
that I remember fondly,
and in my childhood dreams
an image of the one who's not here.
If there's someone who will wear it,
today I wonder, if I get lost,
if I send a slow memory,
poncho, where will you be;
I even think if you'll be
just the dream of memory.

Poncho, why have you been lost
in the twists of life,
like the lost life
of that chosen man,
whose vivid memory
breaks the wild voice
of a nostalgic person
with gray temples and head,
high the morning sun,
these décimas intone.

I've had other ponchos
in life and work,
fine fabric, ugly fabric,
ponchos that I've used and loved.
Year after year I've lived
walking and walking so much,
and if I faced without fear
loss and pain like my father,
I haven't found another that fits me
like that poncho I sing about.

(The italicized texts correspond to recited parts)