Pobre Viejo

The burning of the years turned to ashes in his hair
and he no longer has the strength to bear the slope alone
Absence hunched over him and now that he's getting old
sorrow knots up in him, shown by a black handkerchief.
He sits next to the hearth, musing in silence
and his bitterness sweetens as he thinks of distant times
the cigarette in his hand trembles
while the smoke of memories clouds his vision.
He saddles up absentmindedly, walks the fields at a slow pace
and takes his time to return to the ranch as no one waits for him inside
occasionally a whistle unintentionally escapes into the wind
pain that emerges in silence between his dry lips.
In the darkest night his eyes are wide open
as if searching for that shadow that keeps scaring his sleep
thus he spends the hours between stars
with that cross that destiny has nailed him with while still alive.
The burning of the years turned to ashes in his hair
and he no longer has the strength to bear the slope alone
Absence hunched over him and now that he's getting old
sorrow knots up in him, shown by a black handkerchief.
The tamer of oblivion does not embrace the poor old man.