Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hernán Bravo Varela

(Twenty-Five Cents, for God’s Sake)

My father, dead, came by the other day.
He handed me a pillow and two blankets
and then he died again, as was his way.

There wasn’t any light, but I still see
my own reflection trembling in his eyes.
My father, dead, came by the other day.

It’s not a tale of ghosts or sorcery:
my father came, completely nonchalant,
and then he died again, as was his way.

Pneumonia had killed him. Just the same,
he showed up very late, almost at dawn.
My father, dead, came by the other day.

His company was brief: he only stayed
the time it takes for the police to come
and then he died again, as was his way.

My father gone, the lights and sirens came;
I left the pillow and the blankets there.
My father, dead, came by the other day
and then he died again, as was his way.


2829 16th St., N.W.
Washington, D.C.

(Veinticinco centavos, por el amor de Dios)

(Veinticinco centavos, por el amor de Dios)

Mi padre muerto vino el otro día.
Me dejó dos cobijas y una almohada
y se volvió a morir como solía.

Estaba oscuro, pero todavía
puedo verme temblando en su mirada.
Mi padre muerto vino el otro día.

Ni cuento de terror ni brujería:
mi padre apareció como si nada
y se volvió a morir como solía.

Con todo y que murió de neumonía,
lo vi muy tarde, ya de madrugada.
Mi padre muerto vino el otro día.

Apenas me duró su compañía
lo que tarda en hacerse una redada
y se volvió a morir como solía.

En su ausencia, llegó la policía
y dejé las cobijas y la almohada.
Mi padre muerto vino el otro día
y se volvió a morir como solía.


2829 16th. St., N. W.
Washington, D. C.
Close

(Twenty-Five Cents, for God’s Sake)

My father, dead, came by the other day.
He handed me a pillow and two blankets
and then he died again, as was his way.

There wasn’t any light, but I still see
my own reflection trembling in his eyes.
My father, dead, came by the other day.

It’s not a tale of ghosts or sorcery:
my father came, completely nonchalant,
and then he died again, as was his way.

Pneumonia had killed him. Just the same,
he showed up very late, almost at dawn.
My father, dead, came by the other day.

His company was brief: he only stayed
the time it takes for the police to come
and then he died again, as was his way.

My father gone, the lights and sirens came;
I left the pillow and the blankets there.
My father, dead, came by the other day
and then he died again, as was his way.


2829 16th St., N.W.
Washington, D.C.

(Twenty-Five Cents, for God’s Sake)

My father, dead, came by the other day.
He handed me a pillow and two blankets
and then he died again, as was his way.

There wasn’t any light, but I still see
my own reflection trembling in his eyes.
My father, dead, came by the other day.

It’s not a tale of ghosts or sorcery:
my father came, completely nonchalant,
and then he died again, as was his way.

Pneumonia had killed him. Just the same,
he showed up very late, almost at dawn.
My father, dead, came by the other day.

His company was brief: he only stayed
the time it takes for the police to come
and then he died again, as was his way.

My father gone, the lights and sirens came;
I left the pillow and the blankets there.
My father, dead, came by the other day
and then he died again, as was his way.


2829 16th St., N.W.
Washington, D.C.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère