My Childhood's House Poem by Alexandro Johns

I returned to the house of my early years.
Inside to it, the cold desolation of its walls
embraced me, as if the time spent
and the earthquakes of my country
would like the demolition of my soul.

In the attic of this house I dreamed with Amada,
the girl who induced to me, without her knowing,
in the contemplation of desire
and the impossible fasting of love.
I think that by her guilt I became a poet,
when I saw her steps under this window
that right now it show my cracked countenance.

From internet, some time ago,
I dug up a photograph of Amada.
Now, in the middle of these ruined walls,
I can see her current image as if it were
a graffiti of dark meaning
but it sets me free from the harassment
of my own youth.

I believe I was never far away,
I was just a vagrant looking for identity
on safely roads and with luggage,
maybe he wasted his life
going back with his gray hair
to the house of his childhood.