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As a child,
I thought that when you died,
you were moving to another country far away,
that in that place unknown to me,
were those loved ones.
Perhaps reading other newspapers, there would be my grandfather,
in some small square in old Italy with his clear eyes,
Or my father in Amsterdam looking at the harbours and their ships.
It was a fantasy, I know
But I needed that thought.
Today my footsteps wander in Medellín,
Away from how many I loved and knew,
my skin is touched by other looks,
my voice exists, for foreign ears,
I am a foreigner
Surely a dead man wandering other streets,
Back where I come from,
perhaps, some portrait of me
Will be illuminated by the candles of some memory,
some prayer for me will be raised.
I am from nowhere
just a shadow of memories,
echo accompanied by a guitar,
message of love romancero that is lost in the streets
dead... Or alive,
I don't know
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