Mañana Porteña En Madrid - Ismael Serrano

Todos los días lo encontraba

en el mismo autobús, el mismo viaje.

Le oía platicar y nos hablaba

de las calles de Boedo en Buenos Aires.

Tardes de truco y los amigos,

los pibes, la vieja y esas noches

de diciembre en el portal de cada casa.

Y era todo tan suave como un roce.

Su soliloquio oíamos, entre paradas,

y Argentina, despacito, se colaba

en la mañana fría y los viajeros

sonreían escuchando sus palabras.

Nos hablaba del temor y la miseria,

de la crisis que ennegrece estos días

y recordaba antes de que todo estallara:

él tuvo planes, futuro, toda una vida.

Y el autobús callaba y de repente

habitábamos todos un colectivo

recorriendo, cansado, Buenos Aires,

por las calles de un Madrid lleno de frío.

Ahora, decía, estaba bárbaro:

tenía un buen laburo y ya su jefe

le había prometido que muy pronto

le arreglaría todos los papeles.

Y muy pronto los pibes y la vieja

se vendrían acá.

Todo se arregla.

«Cuestión de confianza», nos decía.

El futuro ha de venir en primavera.

Y me parece oír un dulce tango,

y no sé si eres vos o si sos tú,

entre el yira o tal vez la última curda,

tenés el corazón mirando al sur.

Cada mañana nos toca leer

nuevas leyes contra el viajero que llega.

Entonces pienso en él.

Ruego a los dioses

que guarden su camino y lo protejan.

No lo hemos vuelto a ver.

Hará

tres meses desde el tiempo en que decía

que se sentía tan bien acá en España…

igual que si estuviera en su Argentina.

Every day I found it

on the same bus, the same trip.

He heard him talk and spoke to us

of the streets of Boedo in Buenos Aires.

Afternoon tricks and friends,

the kids, the old woman and those nights

December in the portal of each house.

And it was all as smooth as a touch.

His soliloquy we heard, between stops,

and Argentina, slowly, slipped in

in the cold morning and the travelers

They smiled listening to his words.

He spoke to us of fear and misery,

of the crisis that darkens these days

and he remembered before everything exploded:

he had plans, a future, a lifetime.

And the bus was silent and suddenly

we all inhabited a collective

touring, tired, Buenos Aires,

through the streets of a Madrid full of cold.

Now, he said he, he was barbaric:

he had a good job and already his boss

he had promised her that very soon

he would arrange all the papers for her.

And very soon the kids and the old woman

they would come here

Everything is fixed.

"A matter of trust," he told us.

The future must come in spring.

And I think I hear a sweet tango,

and I don't know if it's you or if it's you,

between the yira or perhaps the last curda,

you have the heart facing south.

Every morning we have to read

new laws against the arriving traveller.

Then I think of him.

I pray to the gods

that they guard their way from him and protect him.

We have not seen him again.

will do

three months from the time he said

that he felt so good here in Spain...

as if he were in his Argentina.