My childhood did not carry the scent
of blue water nor sweet roses.
It had no scent at all,
it was the scream of a furrowed mothers face.
the battle of distances and hard crust bread
and many mornings without the serenity of sun
to dry the tears of a crying face.
My childhood did not smell of delusions.
Illusions, it was illusory to await something,
the beginning of poetic speech, somehow
awakened the desire to live.
Without it there was nothing,
just sadness and pain.
A mother’s trembling hand caressed my face.
while the other baked bread,
Father, plowing, waving away devils
early, too early in my childhood,
without the scent of oranges,
only the stale winter rain.
In my youth there was nothing beautiful,
only sadness and the wages of pain.