El Anónimo

One day like any other
I was reading my letters,
scratching my eyebrow
alone and out loud.

The last paper
that fell into my hands
was an anonymous letter
in clear language.

It was written by a woman
of very obvious shyness
who spoke of her life
with so little glory.

Tears were drawn
and sometimes laughter
with such simplicity
as with such haste.

How many papers
I have received.
Photos and texts
ornamental signatures.
How many requests,
how many honors
and vanities.
How many illusions,
how many toys
of mortals.
of mortals.

That girl
didn't ask for my face,
nor forgotten letters,
nor useless autograph.

She said that with tears
or with her laughter
my things for her
were always the same.

And in her work
they know her taste so well
that they rush to find her
when I sing on the radio.

At her house they tell her
that she worships me
and that makes me feel
like the author of a theft.

With what right,
with what cunning,
do I provoke charms,
do I provoke dreams,
do I provoke anguish.
With what right
other phantoms
take away and put back
at their whims
life in the soul.

I was moved
by her selfless gesture:
writing and pouring out
without asking for anything in return.

She said as if speaking
of an impossible:
'it would have made me
infinitely happy
if you, one day,
had written me a song.'

And here is the song,
though a bit raw,
because reality
must be sung naked.

It's overwhelming to think
that of brilliant stone,
because it's stone and shine,
it's believed to be a diamond.

How many papers
I have received.
Photos and texts
ornamental signatures.
How many requests,
how many honors
and vanities.
How many illusions,
how many toys
of mortals.