Sitting at the doorframe,
the turned off ciggy in his lips,
the soaked beret and in his hand,
a nervous hazelnut cane
What remembers his forehead clean and clear
maybe the spring without petals
the smell of the wet powder
or the taste of coal while he was chipping
The grandfather was a chipper, there at the mine;
and pulling out black coal hi burned his life
The grandfather sat at the stairs,
waiting for the warm early morning sun,
the look nailed to the mountain,
it's his most faithful friend that never cheats him.
His trembling hand goes to his pocket,
looking for the tobacco and his little book
and in the end as always murmuring
that Maria hides his tobacco.
The grandfather was a chipper, there at the mine;
and pulling out black coal hi burned his life