In a park bench, an old woman
is so lonely with the umbrella
which is the scenary to her.
In a park bench, an old woman
is alone, there is nothing
sadder in this world.
By seeing her, you only feel tenderness, not pitty
neither compassion
because she has traces of freshness in the face.
She already sewed alpergatas and
true flags.
She suffered the poverty to the bottom.
With her bones, she made the tables and chairs,
in such a way
that allow her to be as if seated on the world.
In this garden, she is
the climbing plant of the tiredness
of the wrinkles , in which time
is much deeper.
In a park bench, an old woman
will not be alone anymore,
the future is with her,
and by opening, under the sunlight ,
her umbrella with a frayed dark cover,
the sun comes to contemplate her by the window.
If only this old lady were
the mother I want
the mother I had
there wasn't more beautiful than mine in the world .
In a park bench, an old woman
makes drawings with the pebbles
plebbles that, in reality, are like me.
She knows that her pains are the ones I also have
They are the painful crumbs for the adventurer son that God gave her.
And, around her seat, the
marigold and the swallows
prove that my mother never died.