Pan Duro

Wrinkles that are furrows with tender shoots
Light as the bundles carrying dreams
That swallow millstones and all their bones are visible
That know their years have seen more than four winters

Silence through the roof, through the full plates
Silence bathed in the sweat of laborers
The sun has made it into shreds
That know the worth of a kiss
Who don't want to bear the names of their jailers

What do closed fists know about guts?
They know they are watered by bitter drinks
They know everything and more about standing tall
About loneliness
They know why the bread is always hard

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

Bolts at the whim of shallow depths
Opened to make way for horseshoes
That leave traces to guide them back to take revenge
To avoid having to tear their clothes anymore