I'm not trying to reflect myself

This very afternoon, so as not to go too far,
I won't look for my reflection in the island's mirrors.

In the torn shirt and filthy skin
of the man who looks like just another piece of coal he sells,
or the one whose tie is reflected in the Mercedes
with a majestic air.

And I don't blame the love of this land
for selling my reflections.
It will be enough to open a door,
to find my mother
weaving the thread of the homeland
along the path that existence leaves us.

To return to the places where I was once happy,
without looking back,
because the homeland is a thread that tends to grow
and embroider our stories.