Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour, and mamacaressed us: "But, sons…"Now I go hideas before, from all eveninglectures, and I trust you not to give me away.
Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.
I remember we made ourselves cry,brother, from so much laughing.
Miguel, you went into hidingone night in August, toward dawn,but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.
And the twin heart of those dead eveningsgrew annoyed at not finding you.
And nowa shadow falls on my soul.
Listen, brother, don't be latecoming out.
All right?
Mama might worry.translated by James Wright
