#poem, #art, «Clouds Without Rain»

I waited for the train on broken tracks,

sitting in an old abandoned station…

I walk back to my street on dusty sidewalks, broken, cracked.

But when I reach my doorstep

I smell the jasmine and magnolia

smoke from grandpa’s pipe,

from grandpa’s soul.

And another day passes…

My street is dark and windy in the winter,

the snow has turned asphalt to marmalade.

Above the rooftops black wings flap,

and sharpened talons rip apart white pigeons,

while iron beaks break through the rotten wood.

Medieval homes once made of dreams and aspirations…

And another life passes…

My eyes see light, holes in the clouds,

clouds that defy winds, refuse to move.

Clouds without rain have darkened the blue of heaven,

like bombers in the sky,

they strip away the colours of the sunset.

And another thought passes me by…

I am the fingers of the most atrocious warrior,

the knees of a pious, mystic monk,

within me burns the blood of thinkers

and of the artisans that built these walls,

and paved these ancient streets so narrow that shoulders

passing by scrape the dust of the centuries.

And reality comes and quietly caresses me…

Grandpa has put away his pipe

and savours his warm glass of anisette.

He stretches out his arms as if to pray

then calmly rises,

shuffles away in search of dreams,

and I sit on the doorstep counting

grains of sand from ancient beaches…

C.2024, Francisco Bravo Cabrera – 28/04/2024 – Valencia, Spain