Carreton

Cart, car in my games
with paper whips
and a horse stone
pulled by reins of fires.

Cart, cart then,
walking sad and rusty,
it became heavy work
for my older brothers.
And in the center of the pains
my father sat.

Barely looked at him
leave, but when he returned
he came silent before the day
after his tired mare.

San Juan Street, on your gravel
how many traces of poverty
were selling hardness
of my father's luck
to give to my mother
a bite of sadness.

I still see your strong hands
triumphant over time emerging,
and your wrinkles smiling
behind your old death.

How much I would give to have you,
here, that today everyone owns,
this today that adds efforts
from the sweat of your shirts
when we toast smiles
in carts of dreams.