Winter or Spring

Tickles weeping,

falling like pollen

over Madrid's ground

cleaning this sidewalk,

of blind steps,

and laughing, in silence,

like museum afternoons. 

Inivierno o Primavera

Cosquillas de llanto

cayendo como el polen

sobre el suelo de Madrid,

limpiando esta acera, 

de pasos de ciego,

 riendo a la vez, en silencio, 

como las tardes de museo. 

By Our Side

Waiting by the shore
you will always be, with your chair
and your sassy smile, in the sand
of your beach. You made it ours
sliding your laughter between summer days, triumphant
over strolls and infinite greetings,
my first conversations tangled
in the colors of your words.

Climbing midday, your humor pushing my hunger uphill,
houses that go like memories, but your tanned face elongating
my days from the garden next door,
solving the enigma of childhood, demonstrating with tender questions
how big my family was:

I had you as a grandmother, when you weren't,
and when everyone deemed me princess, for you: your reiniña;
I knew from you, the gift of sisterhood, filled with argued recipes,
and a wall that didn't separate anything: not the flowers, not the sunsets,
together you were the house from below, the angel that accompanies me;
now you are more, taking care to not leave us alone, settling in your place:
I will always see you, in each neighboring home,
waiting by the shore, laughing you wisdom.

Al Lado

Esperando en la orilla
estarás siempre con tu silla,
con tu pícara sonrisa, en la arena
de vuestra playa. La hicisteis nuestra
deslizando vuestra risa entre días de verano, triunfando
sobre paseos y saludos infinitos,
mis primeras conversaciones enredadas
en los colores de tus palabras;

Subidas al monte, tu humor empujando mis ganas de comer,
casas que se van como memorias, pero tu cara morena alargando
mis días desde el jardín de al lado,
resolviendo el enigma de la infancia, demostrando con preguntas de cariño
cuan grande era mi familia:

Te tuve como abuela, sin que lo fueras,
y cuando para todos fui princesa, para ti: tu reiniña,
supe de ti, el regalo de la hermandad, llena de recetas discutidas,
y un muro que no separaba ni las flores, ni los atardeceres,
vosotras erais la casa de abajo, el ángel que me acompaña;
ahora sois más, cuidando de no dejarnos solos, tomando tu lugar:
te vere siempre, en cada casa vecina,
esperando en la orilla, riendo tu sabiduría.

Hasta Ya

Gaviota sobre la columna del Tajo, pensando en volar:
me sumerjo en tu capital con su alma de pueblo
en las ventanas, siempre abiertas a las miserias y proezas
de cada casa portuguesa; tu olor a parrilla en primavera
y tus colores deslizándose en las pupilas.

Pura poesía estampada en tu corazón, entre escaleras sin desembocadura,
escalamos al son de una guitarra, recordándome a mi hogar, hoy sembrando
cera sobre este suelo, velando por un lugar
que fue y no fue mi casa; como cada esquina,
me ayudas a estirar las plumas, sin quemarme con tu clima,
aprendiendo a tararear alegre
la melancolía.

Me has dado el ritmo de un pasado confiado
y el pasaje aún danzado, con la llave de la nostalgia
decido, yo ó el viento, seguir hacia el mar; desaparece
la gaviota entre las risas alarmadas de otra historia
pero yo sigo la mía: se cerro la puerta, pero siguen de par en par,
las ventanas abiertas.

Until Now

Seagull over the column of the Tagus, thinking of flying:
I submerge to your capital with its town soul
in the windows, always open to the miseries and feats
of each Portuguese party; your smell of grill in spring
and your colors sliding in the pupils.

Pure poetry stamped in your heart, between stairs without outfall,
we climb to the pulse of a guitar, reminding me of my home, today planting
wax over this floor, veiling over a place
that was and was not my house; like each corner,
helping me to stretch feathers, without burning in your climate,
learning to happily hum
melancholy.

You gave me the rhythm of a confident past-
and the passage still danced- with the key to nostalgia
deciding, me or the wind, to continue towards te sea; now the seagull
vanishes between the alarmed laughter of another story,
but I continue with mine: the door closed, but still wide
the windows are open.

Clearings Without Light

Recently awoken from a nap,
clouds circling my head,
rain in cities made of sun:
Announcing themselves with smell,
hours before falling, like steps of mud
Floor of sunken herbs between tiles, releasing a past heat;
All submerging their colors,
taking them out to the supernatural light, between downpours,
warm and temporary peace, of thin droplets between minutes
and a rainbow hiding, between pastel-colored façades,
today without hanging clothes, the wind knows nothing will dry,
other than the desire to run, through the hooded hills
of yawns soaked by honey tears
sticking storms on us,
wet with April syllables.