The railway worker

I remember when as a child
seeing my father walking,
returning at nightfall
so weary after work.

Memories, beatiful memories
of my old man have I.

I remember him on the platform
with a shiny leather jacket,
machinist of the earth,
stoker of heavens.

When working on the night shift
he came back with the dawn,
his hair full of stars,
my window awakened.

His militant presence
spiked his path with thorns,
banished him to the hills
to recover from the wounds.

I would like to give him thanks
for all that he taught me:
that justice is the people,
that woman is love.