On the shore of this sea, looking at the big tree trunks floating
I heard the days growing, perhaps shamelessly.
When solitude is an open arch upon the heart,
at the beginning of April,
I see them fade on the algae, on the avenues flooded by birds.
In the station, some dogs loiter in the waiting room
and the trains turn to the interior of the country among mountains,
gropingly they cross the dried-out soil,
under a sun of copper swollen over the city.
From the swing of summer I saw the days growing
and I heard the cicadas and the noises of the port.
Perhaps shamelessly, I see them fade
when death puts new clothes on my father’s back,
and this sea is not enough and the shores of this sea are not enough.
— Fernando Linero, from “A Station By The Sea,” La risa del saxo. Translation: Nicolás Suescún (Cuadernos de Poesía Ulrika, Volumen I, Bogotá, 1985)