La noche de Viernes Santo - Marea

Llegó rumiando piedras tras caer

Surcada por las cuerdas del serón

La lluvia, recogida en puño

Demasiada piel

Demasiado que perder…

Pero todo lo perdió

Venía mascullando su oración

Luciendo el altozano en el costal

Bullendo -igual que bulle el miedo sujeto al ronzal-;

Arrastrando el sinsabor de su sola soledad

Enséñame tus alas de zorzal

Aburridas de rezar

Entre el brillo y el espanto

Tu aliento de tomillo, tu verdad

Tu mirada de humedad

Tu dolor de Viernes santo

Traía, en la ojeras, una luz

Brotando de la grieta que pintó

Quería que su romería fuese multitud

Y, el de los brazos en cruz

Nunca, de ella, se acordó

Enséñame esa noche que tendrá

Una senda que labrar

Que me cubra con su manto

Que no me despedace al recordar

Que no pude remendar

Tu dolor de Viernes santo

Y en esta orilla, que chilla de tanto aguantar

Fue la costilla rota de Adán;

La de la vieja Andalucía rebuscando pan;

La que ha masticado el sol;

la salina de mi sal

Enséñame tus alas de zorzal

Aburridas de rezar

Entre el brillo y el espanto

Tu aliento de tomillo, tu verdad

Tu mirada de humedad

Tu dolor de Viernes santo

Enséñame esa noche que tendrá

Una senda que labrar

Que me cubra con su manto

Que no me despedace al recordar

Que no pude remendar

Tu dolor de Viernes santo

He came ruminating stones after falling

Crossed by the ropes of the serón

The rain, collected in a fist

too much skin

Too much to lose...

But everything was lost

She came mumbling her prayer

Wearing the lofty in the sack

Seething -just as fear subject to the halter is seething-;

Dragging the distaste of his only loneliness

Show me your thrush wings

bored of praying

Between the brilliance and the fright

Your thyme breath, your truth

your look of moisture

Your Good Friday pain

He brought, in the dark circles, a light

Springing from the crack that she painted

He wanted her pilgrimage to be a crowd

And, the one with the crossed arms

She never remembered

Show me that night that she will have

A path to work

May she cover me with her mantle

That she doesn't tear me to pieces by remembering

that I couldn't mend

Your Good Friday pain

And on this shore, which screams from so much enduring

It was Adam's broken rib;

The one from old Andalusia looking for bread;

The one that has chewed the sun;

the saline of my salt

Show me your thrush wings

bored of praying

Between the brilliance and the fright

Your thyme breath, your truth

your look of moisture

Your Good Friday pain

Show me that night you will have

A path to work

May she cover me with her mantle

That does not tear me apart when remembering

that I couldn't mend

Your Good Friday pain