Como Pa' Nunca

A wind from that side shaped his face,
like never again to change the leather.
Dark as the soul of the hole
that shows its barred throat.
A muddy sweat stains his forehead,
and a stream of salt stitches his chest.
Transparent crystal shatters
when hitting the belt, suddenly.
Every pore in the skin is a source
and a bit of life... and a right.

How many years of shovel and pickaxe,
of cornering, handling and rods,
enduring the rain in the sheds,
chipping the bar with pick, mallet, and iron.
There's no tourniquet to stretch destinies,
nor a smooth eight to add life to it.
The wound goes to the spike
like a red and wandering bird.

A wind from that side keeps wearing him out,
from so much shoveling in the mornings.
And in a forgotten corner of desires,
some tired tendon asks: until when?
The shadow of the evening is approaching,
slower and less early each time.
Living purely by arm becomes long,
seeking the nook in the roughness.
The heart repeats the dry blow
every time the pick is spat out.
And a needle of fire to the spine
makes the eye hollow.
And a wind from that side takes the echo away,
but the shock remains in the bone.

A wind from that side...
shaped his face like never again to change the leather.
Dark as the soul of the hole
that shows its barred throat.
A muddy sweat stains his forehead,
and a stream of salt stitches his chest.
Transparent crystal shatters
when hitting the belt, suddenly.
Every pore in the skin is a source
and a bit of life... and a right.