Another man has gone
BY DAR BARAHONA
The melancholic chorus of Friedrich´s inside
unchained his fragile cry, abandoned between a divorce and his solitude
An aged bottle, lets him fall in drowsiness
More than 5 years hence, and in his memory his children pass by
Taunting him.
- My little Richard – says he while he takes
the portrait of his six-year-old son
His silent life marks his steps,
like the hair which sadly reveals his pate
The rain is about to pour, he goes out to the lonely balcony
And bouts of wind ache in his stomach, a tear wells out of him
- What day is it? – he asks
looking to the North
His spirit has flown from him, even sleep has fled him
With one of his hands he digs in his pockets,
He thinks of his only exit as he touches the barrel of his escape
Then he caresses the minute beginning of his end,
Blinks, then shuts his eyes and in between tears he sobs
- How can I touch all I ever loved…
all I ever wanted to lose…
A gust of wind unbuttons his shirt
He cuddles up, careless for the storm which is about to break free
He takes out what he thinks is his liberty
And his index finger is ready for the impulse which he must command
The storm has begun and in the gray floor, another man has gone.
- Translated by Aquerra Goytí
D.E.Barahona.
BY DAR BARAHONA
The melancholic chorus of Friedrich´s inside
unchained his fragile cry, abandoned between a divorce and his solitude
An aged bottle, lets him fall in drowsiness
More than 5 years hence, and in his memory his children pass by
Taunting him.
- My little Richard – says he while he takes
the portrait of his six-year-old son
His silent life marks his steps,
like the hair which sadly reveals his pate
The rain is about to pour, he goes out to the lonely balcony
And bouts of wind ache in his stomach, a tear wells out of him
- What day is it? – he asks
looking to the North
His spirit has flown from him, even sleep has fled him
With one of his hands he digs in his pockets,
He thinks of his only exit as he touches the barrel of his escape
Then he caresses the minute beginning of his end,
Blinks, then shuts his eyes and in between tears he sobs
- How can I touch all I ever loved…
all I ever wanted to lose…
A gust of wind unbuttons his shirt
He cuddles up, careless for the storm which is about to break free
He takes out what he thinks is his liberty
And his index finger is ready for the impulse which he must command
The storm has begun and in the gray floor, another man has gone.
- Translated by Aquerra Goytí
D.E.Barahona.
