Penelope,
with their brown skin handbag
and their heel shoes,
and their Sunday dress.
Penelope,
he/she sits down in a bank in the platform
and he/she hopes the first train arrives
moving the fan.
They say in the town that a walker stopped
their clock a spring afternoon.
Good-bye, my love, don‘t cry me, I will return
before of the sallows they fall the leaves...
He/she thinks of me, I will return for you...
poor unhappy,
he/she stopped your infantile clock
a leaden afternoon of April,
when your lover left.
He/she withered
in your orchard until the last flower,
there is not a sallow in the biggest street
for penélope.
Penelope,
sad by force of waiting,
their eyes seem to shine
if a train whistles in the distance.
Penelope,
one after other sees them happen,
he/she looks at their faces, he/she hears them speak,
for her they are puppets.
They say in the town that the walker returned,
he/she found it in their bank of green pine.
he/she called it: "penélope, my faithful lover, my peace,
he/she already stops to knit dreams in your mind...
you look at me, I am your love, I returned... "
He/she smiled him
with the eyes full with yesterday,
it was not this way their face neither their skin:
"you are not who I wait... "
And he/she stayed
with their brown skin handbag
and their heel shoes
sitting in the station.