M'hauria Agradat

I would have liked to live in a farmhouse
lost among oaks and pines near the sea,
there in Empordà, with a small boat to go fishing.
I would have liked.

I would have liked that through that window
I had never seen that golden car
brake too late, or not find my mother, on Christmas Eve,
crying in secret.

But no one warned me that you could write a letter
like ordering lunch from a menu.
But no one warned me and the waiter ignores me
and all alone, in silence, I finish my dish.

I would have liked that promise of love and tenderness
had not turned, after so many years,
into that distant farewell letter.
I would have liked.

And I would have liked to be home in the evenings
coming back from work and sleep
when the sun also does.
I would have liked.

But I guess that's how it goes,
and, as always, maybe I was too late,
and I have to live life
like someone still dreaming
that maybe what
I would have liked comes true.
But maybe I was too late.