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The old campesino


I race with the sun, the
always win, filled with darkness

my eyes before it is too small when he arrived

even in those months in which the path up to my
sky is falling for him.

I'll be hungry for him,
more anxiety than he knows
the sun and heat
around me like no other in the day.

with me until the thirst of
my animals
pulls me down to the shores of the lake.
They are my friends, my warm night
my guard and, God forgive me, my livelihood

when the earth is lazy and insolent.

the way back to my mud walls,
with a donkey laden as a convict, a goal
bearded
I follow my grief gives way, it gives
also to my animals,
to my miseries,
to my sorrow.

I bent even more than this plateau

has not already done in recent years,
not even know how many.

I climbed the hill to my house,
over a period of time that even this
I could say how much.

Up here, where the breath is short and
you lean forward because it seems
longest time has only three hours
dawn, noon and sunset. Perhaps that gringo

off-road, with the aim
in hand as a weapon,
belongs to that part of the world where people have

many hours to count in a day,
that even if I give it to me
not say how many.

I only count how many times someone has made

across the street
today, at sunset.