A Window in Winter - Sandro Chiri

Through this window

I have seen the rain and snow,

my distant children, an envious

scowl and, far away, a letter

from God on the ground ripped to shreds.

From this window

the word Homeland has

the aroma of toasted coffee, of hot

bread, of resonant Spanish.

But this window, certainly,

has stature and anguish,

a frightening blind corner.

I have a window in

West Philly like someone

holding onto an illusion or a dream.

But for the record:

The sun doesn’t come in through this window,

much less memorable feats,

just questions and the Past,

just your name like fragile pride.

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Sandro Chiri (born 1958) Peru

Translated by Amy Olen

Source: World Literature Today