The young poet remembers his father
Now I know that I passed through your life
like rivers pass beneath bridges,
indifferent, troubled, prideful,
with the nebulous triviality
of little things that seem eternal.
Often the obvious
hides behind a halo of uncertainty,
behind the habitual slowness, indistinguishable
from the runaway aura of unique experiences.
It's difficult to know
that the rough beauty of living day by day,
so selfless,
born without clamor or pretense,
is in essence so magical and emphatic
it is impossible to intentionally imitate.
And it is even more difficult
to understand that the celebration of simple things
almost always ends
long before the will of the reveller.
Motionless I saw the silent parade of your life
pass before my eyes
with your weary autumn dreams,
your inner joys,
and your sleeplessness slightly warm.
I think I'm right if I say
I never gave you anything that was not
a gift to myself.
And yet, I asked so much of you.
Today, motionless once again, I go unarmed
to this bitter parade of your absence
while my heart, divided and amazed
begins to discover like the poet
that life goes on in earnest.
I remember you; It's cold.
And the cold brings me back
to your subtle way of
offering me, at the same time, an errant heart,
luck in a Las Vegas casino,
rain in the desert,
the verses of Machado in the outskirts of town.
Now I know that I passed through your life
indolent and unsuspecting, without wonder,
just as all men tend to live
who do not yet know loss.