El ferroviario
Recuerdo cuando era niño
a mi padre caminando,
volviendo entrada la noche
del trabajo, fatigado.
Recuerdos, bellos recuerdos,
de mi viejo tengo yo.
Lo recuerdo en el andén,
brillante chaqueta 'e cuero,
maquinista de la tierra,
fogonero de los cielos.
Cuando le tocaba noche
volvía de madrugada,
su pelo lleno de estrellas
mi ventana despertaba.
Su presencia militante
le clavó muchas espinas,
relegado por los montes
fue a curarse sus heridas.
El humo de aquellos trenes,
el tiempo de la estación,
me lo traen al recuerdo
y el recuerdo hace canción.
Quisiera darle las gracias
por lo que a mí me enseñó:
que la justicia es el pueblo,
que la mujer el amor.
The Railwayman
I remember when I was a child
my father walking,
returning late at night
from work, tired.
Memories, beautiful memories,
I have of my old man.
I remember him on the platform,
shiny leather jacket,
earth's engineer,
sky's fireman.
When he had the night shift
he would return at dawn,
his hair full of stars
would wake up my window.
His militant presence
pierced him with many thorns,
relegated by the mountains
he went to heal his wounds.
The smoke from those trains,
the time of the station,
bring him back to memory
and memory turns into a song.
I would like to thank him
for what he taught me:
that justice is the people,
that woman is love.