Hoy Pienso de Ti

Es la madrugada, lo se por que siento el silencio .
No hay mucho sentido que yo me levante y sacude al Sol,
El  a solas se levantar y  abrirá las ventanas.

Mi imaginación  se mueve despacio. Comienza con
el recuerdo pequeño  de un momento fugaz  y
rápidamente me lleva al demonio del  rencor.

Tantos días que yo caminado con mis
ojos de siego y mi corazón de muerto.
Tantos días que yo buscado la razón. 
Tantos días Tantos días.

Es la madrugada lo se por que conozco este color.
No es negro ni azul   ni gris.  
Es el color que  se queda  cuando   muere la luna-
se apagan las estrellas y solo alumbra la soledad.

Es el color de la inquietud 
y de la esperanza y de las aventuras sin comenzar .   
Es el color de mi alma , Es el color de mi corazón.
Es el color Es el color.

Es la madrugado lo se por que no estas.
Es la madrugado por que manana  no vendrás.
Es la madrugada  del comienzo y del fin.

Es la  madrugada es la madrugada


MCV

Dad

Far, far away you sit. 

Its six  in the morning and I can hear the pages turning, 

You sneak a cigarette so as not to let Silvie worry.

Your type writer is resting while you drink your morning coffee, 

the first of many.

You are surrounded by  a million books, 

each has  a corner that you have  bent where  important thoughts
and words wait for that right moment when they need to be said.

On your desk a few snapshots of  people you love who are not near.

Your window  leans across the length of your desk and faces
the big tree , who like you sits and stares south remembering .
the mountains,   the sky, the friends, the music,the silence.

the innocence  Once there was spring.

Your shirt is tucked half out of your pants , old slippers and a robe
that you wear only because you need  a place to hold your cigarettes ,
your eye-glasses and of course a  book

Your eyes are red and your hair is a mess,your face is filled with lines
and  holes and marks that grace your nose. A fine nose you have
wrote.  Yes it is It is a good place to hold  your head.

Inside  your desk you have neatly filed all the projects you have
dreamed. You told me once,What is a man but not his dreams ,
What is a man but not his word , What is  a man if he doesn't
yell at the wind , What is a man who is not browned by the sun,
What is a man if  he does not  plant a tree.What is a man but
the name that he lays on his heart. Something like that...
you always told me a lot .

In your desk a  folder with memories , 

You.! you have a folder of memories .Funny to find out that you
are a sentimental old man. Who would have thought behind that
disguise; that you hold precious those insignificant prizes.
It is nice to know.

There is a garden that you have started to grow. All these years
I would  have never known that you have the patience of a farmer,
who plants and waits ,who waters and waits, who nurtures and
waits.    who waits to enjoy  the day the seeds break the ground,
who enjoys watching the  vine grow tall and flower a garden and
who enjoys cutting a flower to share with his love that smiles, and waits.

Well Dad, its not exactly a poem and its not exactly a story,
but I guess nothing is exactly how it should be always.
Today is  Father's Day I woke up thinking  how nice it would have
 been to wake up and share a coffee and a chat and  to say
I love you Dad. Soon. But as things are and  not as they should
please  know that I was thinking of you just the way your are.

As always your son and  friend.

(to my dad Marco Antonio Chiriboga Villaquiran on Father's Day)