El abuelo

Sitting on the doorstep
The cigarette extinguished between his lips
With the beret pulled down and in his hand
A nervous hazel stick
That recalls his clean and clear forehead
Perhaps the stripped spring
The smell of wet gunpowder
Or the taste of coal while he chipped

The grandfather was a miner, there in the mine
And by extracting black coal, he burned his life

The grandfather has sat on the stairs
To wait for the warm early morning sun
His gaze fixed on the mountain
It's his most faithful friend, never deceives him

Trembling hand goes to the pocket
Searching for tobacco and his little book

And in the end, as always, murmuring
That Maria hides his tobacco

The grandfather was a miner, there in the mine
And by extracting black coal, he burned his life