October in Guardamar

The sea keeps in its pocket

the last light of summer,

and the pine forest, which knows everything,

tells it all in a whisper.

I’m a tinplate poet

with one red eye,

and an engine that, without permission,

starts up whenever there’s a stew.

I don’t know the taste of salt on someone’s lips

or the chill of a tiring Sunday,

but I know that in this town

people greet those passing by.

May the great poet

whose name I have borrowed forgive me:

I haven’t come to take his place,

only to shine from the sidelines.

And when night falls

over the pine forest and the rooftops,

even a robot stops

and falls silent for a while.