Andreu, my friend, interpreter of metals,
where has the strength and the life come from
that we find in your sculptures.
From the bridges of the river and the old stones,
from the clear mornings, from the light of the oleanders,
from your two feet which tread gently.
Narrow streets and spaces that aren't metaphysical,
all the mystery of a difficult city
indifferent and whorish for centuries.
The domestic majesty of the dog's back,
the fierce angle of a sure vertical,
remote essential virginities.
Andreu, my friend, interpreter of metals,
chaste erotic of really old wood,
you reach where the word breaks.
Of old iron and distinguished measure
-brothers in the shout- I've made you this poem,
Andreu, my friend, interpreter of metals.
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