El abuelo
Sentado en el quicio de puerta
El pitillo apagado entre los labios
Con la boina calada y en la mano
Una vara nerviosa de avellano
Que recuerda su frente limpia y clara
Quizá la primavera desojada
El olor de la pólvora mojada
O el sabor del carbón mientras picaba
El abuelo fue picador, allá en la mina
Y arrancando negro carbón quemó su vida
Se ha sentado el abuelo en la escalera
A esperar el tibio sol de madrugada
La mirada clavada en la montaña
Es su amiga más fiel nunca le engaña
Temblorosa la mano va al bolsillo
Rebuscando el tabaco y su librito
Y al final como siempre murmurando
Que María le esconde su tabaco
El abuelo fue picador, allá en la mina
Y arrancando negro carbón quemó su vida
The Grandfather
Sitting on the doorstep
The cigarette extinguished between his lips
With the beret pulled down and in his hand
A nervous hazel stick
That recalls his clean and clear forehead
Perhaps the stripped spring
The smell of wet gunpowder
Or the taste of coal while he chipped
The grandfather was a miner, there in the mine
And by extracting black coal, he burned his life
The grandfather has sat on the stairs
To wait for the warm early morning sun
His gaze fixed on the mountain
It's his most faithful friend, never deceives him
Trembling hand goes to the pocket
Searching for tobacco and his little book
And in the end, as always, murmuring
That Maria hides his tobacco
The grandfather was a miner, there in the mine
And by extracting black coal, he burned his life