El Viejo Matías - Victor Heredia

La lluvia y el viento eran dos hermanos

Corriendo furiosos por el terraplén

Y en un banco oscuro, mojado y mugriento

Él se acomodaba su uniforme gris

El viejo Matías duerme en cualquier parte

Un fantasma errante le toca la piel

Pero cuando llueve sus despojos buscan

La estación de chapas de Paso del Rey

Es cuco de niños y de no tan niños

Su figura triste cruzando el andén

Porque nadie ha visto sus ojos cansados

La cruz del olvido temblando en sus pies

A veces murmura cosas incoherentes

Habla de la guerra, imita al cañón

Y otras veces pone en sus ojos un niño

Y acuna en sus brazos su bolso marrón

Cuando llegan los trenes repletos de obreros

Se pone contento, brilla su mirar

Gorrión de la tarde, quiere hablar con todos

Y después se queda solo en el andén

Se queda mirando las vías vacías

La luz que se pierde del tren que pasó

Y después se aleja murmurando cosas

El viejo Matías, ogro del lugar

La lluvia y el viento eran dos hermanos

Corriendo furiosos por el terraplén

Y en un banco oscuro, mojado y mugriento

Él se acomodaba su uniforma gris

The rain and the wind were two brothers

Running furious down the embankment

And on a dark, wet, grimy bench

He was adjusting his gray uniform

Old Matías sleeps anywhere

A wandering ghost touches her skin

But when it rains the spoils of him seek

The Paso del Rey sheet metal station

He is cuckoo of children and not so children

His sad figure of him crossing the platform

Because no one has seen his tired eyes

The cross of oblivion trembling at its feet

Sometimes he mutters incoherent things

Talk about the war, imitate the cannon

And other times he puts a child in his eyes

And he cradles her brown bag in his arms

When the trains full of workers arrive

He gets happy, his look shines

Evening sparrow, he wants to talk to everyone

And then he is left alone on the platform

He stares at the empty tracks

The light that is lost from the train that passed

And then he walks away muttering things

The old Matías, ogre of the place

The rain and the wind were two brothers

Running furious down the embankment

And on a dark, wet, grimy bench

He was adjusting his gray uniform