Señalada Por El índice Del Sol

I remember my mother some afternoons
when I give in to the habit of the nap
as a kid, it was a punishment not to sleep them,
with terrible seasons without sidewalks.
I remember my sovereign mother,
on a restless spinning top of skirts,
smiling like a boot that has been polished,
victorious like wheat turning green.

She understood the roosters and the moon,
if she wanted them to give her good time,
and for her the day was already old,
when the sun peeked into her tasks.

The kitchen was a dark joint,
and there she won her bets,
in a trick with lettuce cards,
or a culinary billiards with plums,
To the huge childhood courtyards,
my mother went and left her mark there,
every year until today she has followed them,
the geranium to find spring.

She made life and its suburbs,
a matter of love and purity,
marked by the sun's index,
my mother walks so that I can see her.
Marked by the sun's index,
my mother walks so that I can see her.