Pan Duro

Wrinkles that are furrows with tender shoots
Light as the burdens of carrying dreams are
They swallow mill wheels and all their bones are visible
They know that their years have more than four winters

Silence from the roof, from the full plates
Silence bathed in the sweat of the day laborers
The Sun has been torn into shreds
They know what a kiss is worth
They do not want to bear the names of their jailers

What do the guts of closed fists taste like?
They know that bitter drinks water them
They know everything and more about standing up
From loneliness
Do you know why bread is always hard?

Coins so dirty, so blurred
Hateful jingling in calloused hands
And they are the legs of their mules
If the whip is called hunger
The owners of roads that belong to no one

Locks at the whim of shallow depth
Open to make way for horseshoes
They leave traces that guide them to get even again
So as not to have to tear your clothes anymore

What do the guts know about closed fists?
They know that bitter drinks water them
They know everything and more about standing up
From loneliness
Do you know why bread is always hard?
Always hard