Self-Portrait at Thirty-Eight

From the book Ballads and Self-Portraits

Translated by Amanda Castro

Sunday I turn thirty-eight (something unimportant

If we consider

The pain and the death always present)

And throughout my life I have said so many

                                                 [un-transcendental things

I have spoken of the hours dying slowly under your

Hand     I have spoken of the despair and the oblivion of

The smile and your absence

I have said so many banalities about pain and

Silence     and the only thing I have found is your gaze

Cold     and the only thing I have achieved is to scare

Coveys of birds     confused with the suffering of

My words

I turn thirty-eight and it’s Sunday and it’s already pouring

my thick memory (I have said so many

Futilities about love) and I have smoked in front

of the park contemplating the foreign days with children

                                                           [and balloons and

pompous grandfathers

I     am alone     and there will be nobody to remember

                                                                   [the pain

Nor the countless bones on a Sunday of

September