CJ asked for a translation of EL TIEMPO, which I am delighted to do, as any interest for my little poems are equal to any kind word towars my little grandchildren.

Time passes
in front of my window
with slow steps,
like it wanted to show me
which in my life, unmercifully,
the hours that are running out
will leave back a solitude
with murmurs of dementia.

Time passes,
like a traveller coming back
with slow steps,
wishing to say as he goes
that he used, of his life,
every moment trying to leave
in the subconscious of estrangers
a reflection of his face,
whilst I, by my window,
wait for something that's just a dream.

Time passes,
and I became old
with slow steps,
no wishing to know tomorrow because
I was busy with an empty yesterday
which couldn't be filled with hopes,
and, when looking in my own mirror...
the wrinkles on my face,
which time had carved in,
were mocking, of an unknown city
the map of its streets,
without people and abandoned by dreams.

Time passes,
and one start to feel the years weight,
a solitary sadness knocking at the gates.