SINGING Poem by Fernando Linero

This afternoon in ruins from where I sing
awaiting the time that looks for me, my time.
With less ambition than nostalgia the voice rises
and its music is to a dried up soul
the same as a homemade balm.
Not having found a sense of happiness
under the waning sun I sing
— lost my faith in certain words —
for the poor in spirit,
for those who have no cure
for those who search for God in gluttony.
Staggering between solitude and dawn
from my cracking battlements I raise my voice.
But at times I keep silent
— having lost faith in certain matters —
and I listen to the wind riding over the tamarinds.