El niño que fui

The child I was

Sometimes the glass of tears gives me
voiceless birds in my heart
and it turns gray in some drawer
where my childhood lives in its loneliness.
In a pine tree that was sweet branches yesterday,
a colorful bomb, a ship in love
that the wind battered and finally anchored
in the sandy shore of my solitude.
It's just a kid who for the first time
peeks at pain from his innocence,
one more letter that won't arrive.
It's distance and sea, a clumsy awakening.
It's my crying, finally, an old country
where the child I was goes happily.