8. Light of Seville. Antonio Machado
Light of Seville the great palatial house
where I was born, the gurgling fountain sound.
My father in his study. Forehead round
and high, short goatee, mustache drooping down.
My father still is young. He reads and writes,
leafs through his books and meditates. He springs
up near the garden door, strolls by the gate.
Sometimes he talks out loud, sometimes he sings.
And now his large eyes with their anxious glance
appear to wander with no object to
focus upon, not finding anywhere
to rest in void. They slip from past and through
tomorrow where, my father, they advance
to gaze so pityingly at my gray hair.
