De Puro Solo

He was born a bastard,
and he stood still
with brown eyes full of silence,
waiting to grow out of pure luck,
maybe he'll escape the machine
and I'll see him again
on the side of the road, and chat with him,
maybe about nothing in particular.

There he was, all alone on the side
less tree than plant,
and more than a plant
a skinny skeleton of wood
like a Christ
without a mother to hold him,
there he was, all alone on the side,
holding his shadow from below,
which lying on the ground has stayed
as if waiting for a branch to sprout.

There he was,
suffering like a tamarisk,
like one suffers a man in solitude,
neither before,
nor after being wild
truths don't taste the same,
because only the pain of being alone
creates the quantity and beauty
each alone is a world that spins,
on its own world of greatness.

He was born a bastard,
and there he was,
all alone on the side,
less tree than plant,
and more than a plant,
a skinny skeleton
like a Christ without a mother...
who endures.