EN
One winter’s evening
you appeared at the door.
Your face grimy yet bright,
You, as bold as you were able.
Playing my harp,
and to ensure its possession,
you made me swear an oath.
Txirrita sung
the stories of your grandparents.
How some stole
while others danced.
And every Thursday, on Perkaiztegi Street,
women
were possessed by devils.
And you, hands in pockets,
and with an evil gaze,
while you were wandering around the market,
they came across your sister
weeping,
one leg tucked under her skirt.
Maybe I’ll see you now
as you come and go.
Telling yarns to those
desperate for dreams.
Singing, guitar in hand.
Maybe…
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