Bolsillos

In my pockets, I carry the sea surrounding the world,
like a salty crystal that always needs to be looked at.
And above, the mountains cut against the sky,
like a profile of shadows against the loneliness.

And my pockets are filled with songs I don't sing,
the soul of those people, as brown as the sun,
and boats in the night, escapes and lanterns,
the faded ink of a love letter.

In the end, nothing belongs to me,
but they always travel there,
like lights from a past
that I wasn't part of.
In the end, nothing belongs to me,
but they always travel there,
like shadows from a past
that I wasn't part of.

In my pockets, I carry ghosts of my grandfather,
ten photos from the fifties and a civil war.
The sound of drums. The mud and the mirrors
where the faces I didn't see were reflected.

And my pockets are filled with promises of a future
born from a past full of pain,
women against the ground, childhood in front of Christ,
languages and flags, anger and love.

In the end, nothing belongs to me,
but they always travel there,
like lights from a past
that I wasn't part of.
In the end, nothing belongs to me,
but they always travel there,
like shadows from a past
that I wasn't part of.