The traveler.

"The traveler."

The light in the living room
 discovered the arrival of the traveler.
 Nobody knew that the stranger,
 stiff and cold old man,
 before he was a young man,
 an erratic migrant
 on the roads that do not end
 on the edges of the earth
 and that his eyes turned off
 for the years that accumulated in his gut
they stopped following
 his feet tired of searching,
 - pilgrim in time, -
 the freedom that did not exist
 nor in the American dream.
 Some came to see him,
 comfortable and quiet,
 sleeping in his coffin
 like yesterday's dead,
 like the dead today,
 with a wrinkled forehead
 and the hair of the color
 of winter snow
 of that day in January
 when he left alone
 and almost naked, without saying goodbye
 of nobody and imagining
 a distant country that would embrace
 and he would make love to it
 with a bottle of wine,
 with a piece of bread
 on the table
 and the sweat from his hands
 tired of everyday work.
 In the middle of the gloomy room,
 with dull flowers and jasmine,
 there was the traveler who returned
 to the home where he was born
 and a very old mother who wore
 the folds of her skin
 crossing the continent of life,
 she sobbed without having tears
 by the presence of her son,
 of your last loved one
 that he had lived more than 100 years
and buried half of humanity...