Canción Para Dormir a Un Viejo

Open, the old man rests in his armchair
gazes at the street, says words,
that only survive in his voice.

Shelves and cages, must shroud him
because his dreams, dry and worn
from where they lie, will not return.

I see him and almost want to give him a flower,
but the history of this planet
will not be ended by a song.

If there is solace, it lies in understanding
that when a child's shirt becomes too short
it's time to grow up.