After all these seasons,
And year cast after year,
Here I am waiting for you grandmother,
Waiting for this tender punishment
That is stronger than the storm’s sting.
There I take off my face as I fervently turn to the nook,
My head between my blackened hands
And my clothes shabby and cold.
She will come now
She will come in a while,
But the moon …
The rotten fruit
hanging in the night
dimmed in my coat.
Here I am in the ancient portico
My hands are clasped
My feet brush the emptiness
A destitute student
Who becomes old every time she treads on the doorstep.
O grandmother
After all these seasons
And year cast after year,
Where can I get the chain of stories that spill at the hour of your happiness?
How would the morning whiff
the smell of hot bread?
How would it bear the countless lists of advice that are heavier than my school bag?
O kind hearted grandmother
The heart is a splinter under the shirt
But how a splinter
when it has yet to reach its seventh year?                                                                                                                                   Lies are the wisdom of the young
What need I to tell you
So you would realize what a child I was?