Cada Domingo
Silvina Garre
Every Sunday
Every autumn Sunday I go
between the rain and bad coffee
celebrating the usual ritual
doing the math with my reputation
crying for who I love
creating unsolvable problems
seeing how a blind man acts in front of the sun.
The moon falls in the spacious hall
of those who wait without asking
of those who die at every party
and little by little, as if explaining themselves
Sunday continues
and among the paintings near the piano
someone disguises themselves as pain.
Well, now I will close the doors,
in a minor key
and well, here my soul has reached its limit, turning the page
I will solve with hope.
Well, now I will close the doors,
in a minor key
and well, here my soul has reached its limit, turning the page
I will solve with hope.
