Vieja Mirada Mía

Old gaze of mine,
from heavy midday wheat fields,
from dancing lands
on the little hills
and descending to the stream to rest
in the coolness of the old berry bushes,
underneath that bridge
of the ancient adventure...
everything is ancient,
or more than that: it's old,
as old as the last sun
of my first sigh,
as old as abundance
and hunger.

Who taught me not to touch
the neighbor's fruit,
who taught
him to teach me.

Who taught me
to sow my own fruit,
I remember they taught me
not to touch the neighbor's fruit...
it's easier to teach to teach,
than to teach to learn,
or maybe, it's less risky.

Old gaze of mine,
from heavy midday wheat fields,
when the winds of the road
reach you
the flight is hindered
by a dry weed,
and you climb the miraculous dry
of the clouds shattered by thunder,
to shed light on the lightning,
that light that silence taught you...

Old gaze of mine,
the one from the edges of dreams,
bring me back every now and then
to the solitude of simplicity,
to the broken branch,
to the indifferent bird as I pass by,
bring me back every now and then
to the clean neighborhood fields,
to the adobe,
to the white mornings,
to the mills
of the long thirsts,
to the colorless space
of tears,
to the almost heretical forgiveness
that I find
when I look at God...
creating the dawn.

Old gaze of mine...
... from heavy midday wheat fields.