To Federico, with some violets Poem by LUIS GARCÍA MONTERO

and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees
FGL



After
the tired hurry of the last trains
nothing returns. Only
your face remains on Broadway
and it is difficult, with so much solitude, to
close your eyes without doubting that you exist.

Absurd
this tongue of fire that split the horizon,
which extends indomitable over the hearts,
multiform and wounded,
that bursts and seems
the forced smile of a broken mask.

Alone
the city disguises itself in a shiver
and its eyes point you
aligned and blind
like a trail of teeth that is forgotten on the shoulders.

Then
alcohol is the blood that bares your lips,
because night comes,
because death comes on a bent arm
to leave you alone with your years.

Sad for the olive trees,
while Harlem is shutting its windows,
time is a breeze that nobody remembers anymore.