Oh yes, I was plenty lonesome and I never will forget
How the old folks shuffle past me - I can see their faces yet -
Eyes all red around the edges and a damp look deeper in
Eyes that's seen their share of troubles that we're always stumbling in.
Foreheads marked and cut with wrinkles like the plow tracks on a field
Cheeks sunk in against the bone lips that never can be sealed.
Hair as grey and splashed with silver as a moonlight winter's night
Faces - faces - faces - what a picture! What a sight!
Faces friendly like a mountain top that stands up in the sun
When the blank and rotten tenements melt into the filthy slum
Strong and hard but bony faces with a shine of high tanned leather
Faces that had laughed and loved, and cried in every kind of weather
Eyes that looked out of sockets, like a man looks out of jail -
Half a smile and half a sneer - half a love song and half a wail.
Necks and muscles hard as iron once, a little front ways stooped,
Shoulders that had carried whole worlds, just a little downward drooped.
Young heads bobbed along the tight crowd and bellowed out their noise
That roars just like a cyclone in the younger girls and boys:
Eyes that shot ahead like spot lights on the drifting stage below
Eyes that made my spirits brighter even now that I was low.
And I thought, I wondered - which of these
Can look upon the rest of us and say she's really pleased.
Pablo Milanés, uno de los más importantes trovadores de los últimos años, ha fallecido esta noche a los 79 años, tras permanecer ingresado en Madrid durante más de una semana, informaron medios oficiales.
En las noches tristes, escribo. Dormir no apetece ni apremia. La tristeza se canaliza y empieza a formar palabras, y las palabras se me venden como necesarias, y yo las compro y las consumo creyendo que las voy creando. Nunca he sido fumador. Fumo palabras y entre el humo de las noticias voy rodeando la imagen de un rostro muy familiar.