La viuda

Bajo la maceta donde crece el cedro
ha nacido un hongo de un blanco perfecto,
parece una choza redonda del centro,
cómo la casita de mi amigo Pedro.

Que frágil la vida del hongo de lluvias
suave y tan sublime como el dulce viento,
bella cuál la esposa que ha dejado el muerto.
y ahora coquetea con su amigo Alberto.

Más pasan los años, ahora es otro el muerto,
la viuda sonríe silenciosa a Ernesto,
pero este la esquiva pues teme su vida
se agote al momento.

Luego me saluda, me dice: lo siento,
no es usted el mozo que cuida del huerto?
y le digo atento, casi tembloroso
que eso no es muy cierto.

Se acerca y me besa mientras en la caja
descansa tranquilo, con una sonrisa
su esposo contento.

Pasaron seis meses, casi no lo cuento,
porque esa mujer a diario pedía
mi amor y mi afectó...

The widow

Under the pot where the cedar grows
a fungus of a perfect white has been born,
looks like a round downtown shack,
like my friend Pedro's house.

How fragile the life of the rain fungus is,
soft and as sublime as the sweet wind,
as beautiful as the wife that the dead man has left.
and now she flirts with his friend Alberto.

More years go by, now it's someone else who died,
the widow smiles silently at Ernesto,
but he dodges her because he fears his life
runs out instantly.

Then she greets me, she tells me: I'm sorry,
Aren't you the boy who looks after the orchard?
and I tell her carefully, almost trembling
that is not quite true.

She comes over and kisses me while in the box
rest easy, with a smile
her happy husband.

Six months passed, I hardly count it,
because that woman asked daily
my love and affection...

Poetry and photography
@saulos