Salm 70 (Salmo 70)

My beloved Borders Chapel Street, to which I have been going for the past ten years before the movies, closes tomorrow (apparently to be replaced by Target). Every book was reduced to $2. Empty shelves everywhere and no people sipping coffees and browsing magazines. The Oprah Show ends forever this Friday. Call me cheesy but I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by melancholy. From my Dad’s book The celebrated afternoon (La tarde festejada).

Psalm 70 (Salmo 70)

From the luminous hill of the many years,

the man looks at the valley that he has crossed, step by step.

And finds in each of the footprints that

engraved the days on the surface of the earth, which is his,

the collection of the symbols that identify him.

The God of his elders as a perpetual horizon

in the discourse of his lineage.

Loyalty of conduct, which is prime key

in coexisting and unavoidable certainty in front

of the falls in life and of time.

Eloquence as a fastidious human virtue, which

allowed men to mention, with golden voices,

all the beautiful things in nature, from the epic height

of the civil epopee to the conversation of the written letter

to be read in those grave historic moments,

or in fleeting days.

Bread, enough of it for the daily nourishment

in a magnificent table and in honourable and generous hands.

The Fire on the candles that helped

light up the coexistence of happiness and to warm up

the glories that accompanied the opening

of loved graves.

The Power as exercise of authority,

symbol of order and synthesis of decorum.

The Projection of his name, of his thought,

his voice, his shadow, under the strictest of suns

of moral reputation…

…and Love as the tutelary entity

in the dark and merciful corner of the warm home,

where the Book of Saints gave him the names

to identify the inner melodies.