When you’re going around in the city it is difficult to run into her
but you never lose sight of the bare eyes on the face
from the silence, close and withdrawn voices
are like graffitis on the courtyards walls in the midst of colonial nights
And my grandmother is an oak and she’s on her way
she would rise in a storm
when war is raging she would keep on ironing
without any murky tears
over the cornfields.
Her gowns slightly pulled up
give off a smell like the sea
on the ships of winters that one has to endure
women in love, women in love…..
Then she is still, in a picture
she has a brooch in her heart and it’s my own
she will erase your gaze : it is so
if so she wants it to be
there will be no tenderness, she won’t forgive
she will travel on that truck
alone, alone, alone, alone, imagine…
women in love, women in love