Quise hacerle un pequeño homenaje a uno de mis escritores, el portugués Fernando Pessoa, aprovechando una palabra sugerida en esta nueva convocatoria de Club de Poesía, impulsada por 
I wanted to make a small tribute to one of my writers, the Portuguese Fernando Pessoa, taking advantage of a word suggested in this new call of Club de Poesía, powered by
a Fernando Pessoa
Tomaba la mesa más retirada,
la del rincón frente a la ventana.
Era siempre a la misma hora, las 11 de la mañana.
Se notaba en sus ojos,
a través de los gruesos cristales,
que la lucha con el ángel de la noche
había sido larga y ardua.
Puntual y circunspecto,
silencioso y lento como sus pasos.
Sacaba su manoseada libreta del añoso paltó,
la aristocrática pluma,
y llamaba al mesonero.
Yo acudía prontamente
para tomar la nota que no variaba:
un café negro, largo,
y una ración de magdalenas.
Allí permanecía, hundido en las páginas
de su rancio cuadernillo,
o mirando, atento o perdido,
por la amplia ventana del salón,
a la gente en su ritual tránsito cotidiano,
las llamativas vendedoras de flores,
las hojas desprendidas de los árboles,
los trabajadores de la tabacalera…
Encendía un cigarrillo
y se iba con su humo viajero,
un poco cabizbajo,
a encontrarse con el ocaso
y sus álter egos.
by Fernando Pessoa
He would take the most secluded table,
the one in the corner in front of the window.
It was always at the same time,
11 o'clock in the morning.
You could see it in his eyes,
through the thick glass,
that the struggle with the angel of the night
had been long and arduous.
Punctual and circumspect,
silent and slow as his steps.
He took out his manicured notebook from the aged coat,
the aristocratic pen,
and called the waiter.
I would come promptly
to take the note that did not vary:
a long black coffee,
and a ration of muffins.
There he remained, sunk in the pages
of his stale notebook,
or staring, attentive or lost,
through the wide window of the living room,
the people in their daily ritual traffic,
the gaudy flower sellers,
the leaves falling from the trees,
the tobacco workers....
He would light a cigarette
and left with its traveling smoke,
a little crestfallen,
to meet the sunset
and his alter egos.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
Gracias por su lectura. Thank you for reading.
