Seas of grass is a book I've just published this year. Written in Spanish, received the poetry prize "Miguel de Cervantes in Armilla" coordinated by the Armilla town hall, in Granada, Spain. Here you find the poem called "George Square", that belongs to the first part of the book, by Clide Valley. The translation to the English version has been done by myself.
Under a thin curtain of rain -and his melancholy-
we cross the leaden anatomy of Glasgow,
the streets badly injured by dreams of war
that rising from the silt of the river Clyde
to the sacred precincts of the neo-Gothic cathedral
where light passes through a taciturn
current of dry leaves and slow water.
The freezing rain falls steady as a blade
mowing small fragments of landscape,
as blurry pieces of an unfinished puzzle
decomposing at the edge of the evening
for leaving us the oxide profile and empty
of a town beautifully shaded.
Two musicians cross the heart of the square
with guitars on his backs, knocking furiously
the face of the rain asleep on the puddles,
with his hands tearing the invisible threads of music
anticipating the outbreak of a coming storm.
Anyone else -nor we, witnesses with no umbrellas-
crosses over the cobblestones of wind and the ash
of a day burning in furnaces of oblivion.
It rains on the memory of the shadows.
Only severe statue of Sir Walter Scott
-on the top of an imposing column-
belongs unmoved in the rain,
as rowing returning from a shipwreck
to put a line of peace over the sand.
Only time stands the pass of time.
The rest are steps erased by the rain.