Mort d'un heroi romàntic [English translation]

A cousin of my mother had

a prosper lawyer's office in the city,

lots of years ago they sent me there

as young probationary lawyer.

I found a plain chamber:

a table, a bed, a mirror.

And i got there late at night,

for in some pubs it had gotten late.

On the first floor Mrs.Manresa ,

spent the hours sewing,

But that day she seemed upset

she got close to me nervous and said:

"Excuse me, you cannot imagine how much i hate

approaching you to ask you favors.

The 3rd's tenant was like crazy this morning

and now i knock on the door and he doesnt answer..."

Under a huge candelabrum's light

i made my way through the darkness,

moving forward in furniture's shadows

i looked over the rooms.

I heard some dogs whimpering,

i followed the weep's track

and, Sirs, as you may know i encountered

a great romantic hero dead in the dining room.

And he had a ridiculous note wrinkled in his hand

full of fingers that once played with sun setting braids and maidens riding horses.

Shortly after the inspector wrote down

some relative's contact,

a brother that lived on the coast

with whom the dead celebrated their saint's days.

They closed his two eyes tenderly,

they covered him with a white sheet.

Silently everyone soaked up

the green tea heated by the 4th floor's teacher.

A priest prayed the Our Father

in a small whisper aslept on his feet,

on his side the man we gathered

to try to move the body outside.

And pulling lifeless ankles

I got out of that dining room.

Mrs.Manresa suffered

"for God's sake, be careful with the blows!"

On the street the hearse waited,

the driver entertained himself looking at

some soldiers on permission that sang

under the lamposts' light.

We counted up to 3 to pull hard and move the corpse up.

A cold wind froze the air,

a whip bursting lazyly took off the horses.

And he still had the ridiculous note wrinkled in his hand,

full of screams in the emptiness, of violent desires,

of storms that burry ships in the sea.

Full of women laugthing about some bloody

beauties that don't let you any left room to think.

Full of muses wounded for ever,

by rusted nails in rude poets' songs.

Full of infinite jumps where, motionless,

in case you wish to come by, some ice gymnasts wait for you.

Full of slimy beasts about to face

in an unfair combat the christian prisoners.

Full of scared children that check

whether their parents arrive under the constant rain.

Full of young men with a hard on that latch onto

"pubilles" adorned for the Palm Sunday's dance.

(pubilles = the eldest daughter in old Catalonia)

Full of arms that rise up and stop a taxi

after dinners with friends that will go away.

Full of "Believe me I try, but from time to time I suspect,

brunette, that this will never stop."