domingo, 12 de mayo de 2013

My Grandfather

My grandfather's cheeks were like
The stony jetties off Mar del Plata's coast
My grandfather's voice had
The sound of Dulce de Leche on hot Sunday's pastry
His hair had always been white
As the clouds that flew over Playa Grande in Winters past and gone
His eyes were like
Morning Café con Leche on the blue Formica table
By historical standards
He'd been no hero, but god! How I looked up to him

When I stand on that jetty I think
How touched we are by the people who loved us.

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