Mine did not leave documents.
Nothing is known about them, beyond
Of some conjectures. They were poor,
They never asked questions, they accepted
Everything that the good God destined them.
They ate, they fathered and they died
Without pride and without hatred, jubilant
If they were old, and distressed
If they should leave before the hour.
In Catalan they loved and insulted,
And the Catalan said goodbye to this world,
And I feel like a traitor when I evoke them
In a language that they did not understand.
They left few photos, little possessions,
No heraldic shield. They were peasants,
Coach drivers, employees, cooks:
Unimportant people who did not dirty History
Because History, fortunately, did not remember them.
If they protested, it was always in a low voice.
They were heard by their children, their wives, their masters,
But never the good God, hard of hearing.
And now they are mixed with the earth
And they form the landscape of a suburb.
They are corners, grocery stores, cobblestones
And full of smoke cafes. They are horses
Surrounded by horseflies. They are walls.
They are deserted squares with lampposts,
Maybe rubble, cranes, mud. HE
Nobody claims or remembers them.
With them this island was not prosperous,
Nor poorer. Nothing should.
Nothing important was done or left.
Even I do not know what your story is,
And even if he knew her, it would also be useless.
Who can redeem them, giving them back
Everything that was taken from them?
These words will not help.
Iran, like the lives of mine,
Like your love and your faith, your joy
And his fear, to get lost very soon
In this darkness that surrounds us.