Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mario Rivero

Saudade

They say that all time past is better
and I believe that too
Some long for horse-drawn coaches
postcards
and trunks smelling of stale perfume

I personally long for
the days when I went about with a bundle of rags
and a horseshoe as a talisman
from city to city
And above all for that small room at the back
that patio with geraniums
and her moon face when she came in late
smelling of cheap liquor
and how she rolled over me so that I would warm her up
and how she devoured everything
except the newspapers and the coarse soap

Now when I sit down
at my typewriter
to write notes in exact time with the devil or the angel
I long for all her paltriness her patchouli and the hard bread
when already I am beginning to be a funeral director . . .

Saudade

Saudade

Dicen que todo tiempo pasado fue mejor
y yo lo creo también
Unos añoran los coches tirados por caballos
las tarjetas postales
y los baúles oliendo a perfume rancio

Yo personalmente añoro
los días en que iba con un lío de trapos
y una herradura como talismán
de ciudad en ciudad
Y sobre todo aquel cuartico al fondo
de un patio con geranios
y su caritaluna cuando llegaba tarde
oliendo a licor barato
y rodaba sobre mí para que la calentara
y también se tragaba todo lo que había
menos los periódicos y la pasta de jabón ordinario

Ahora cuando me siento
frente a la máquina de escribir
para hacer notas cronometradas sobre el diablo o el ángel
Añoro toda su baratura su pachulí y el pan duro
cuando ya empiezo a ser un empresario de pompas fúnebres . . .
Close

Saudade

They say that all time past is better
and I believe that too
Some long for horse-drawn coaches
postcards
and trunks smelling of stale perfume

I personally long for
the days when I went about with a bundle of rags
and a horseshoe as a talisman
from city to city
And above all for that small room at the back
that patio with geraniums
and her moon face when she came in late
smelling of cheap liquor
and how she rolled over me so that I would warm her up
and how she devoured everything
except the newspapers and the coarse soap

Now when I sit down
at my typewriter
to write notes in exact time with the devil or the angel
I long for all her paltriness her patchouli and the hard bread
when already I am beginning to be a funeral director . . .

Saudade

They say that all time past is better
and I believe that too
Some long for horse-drawn coaches
postcards
and trunks smelling of stale perfume

I personally long for
the days when I went about with a bundle of rags
and a horseshoe as a talisman
from city to city
And above all for that small room at the back
that patio with geraniums
and her moon face when she came in late
smelling of cheap liquor
and how she rolled over me so that I would warm her up
and how she devoured everything
except the newspapers and the coarse soap

Now when I sit down
at my typewriter
to write notes in exact time with the devil or the angel
I long for all her paltriness her patchouli and the hard bread
when already I am beginning to be a funeral director . . .
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