Cuentan

They tell that back in 1970
a cosmonaut was launched into space,
a good man of science
a hero of tradition.

They tell that after orbiting the earth
by mistake he fell into the jungle
in a village marginalized from civilization.

They tell that bombs of bacteria had killed
the birds, the trees, everything poor
that meant living,
while the capitals irradiated
the doomed hut to succumb.
While the capitals irradiated
the doomed hut to succumb.

They tell, they tell, they tell,
that those who received the stranger,
who by rare virtue was also a hero,
waited for him with their hunger and no other attribution.

They tell that hunger ended that man
and the crowd that awaited him.
Inch by inch, hair by hair
without any distinction.

They tell that under the moon's watch
nothing remained but the white armor
of the iron shell in which he flew,
a uniform to reach heights
and a greenish mask for the sun.
A uniform to reach heights
and a greenish mask for the sun.

As if to say

Today I danced with you again,
with organ and danzón;
I showed you my friends again,
I returned without rhyme or reason.

Then I saw in thought
this summer when I saw you,
again I sat happily
and exhausted next to you.

Today I was in the morning
of mockingbird songs,
of sun in the window,
of mountain sunrise,
of satisfied sheets.

Today I had the fate again
of the clumsy walker,
of enemy dreams,
of navigating language,
of king of beggars,
of king and beggar.

Today I returned from the dead
whistling your strange song,
throwing notes and memories
as if saying goodbye.